Karim Flam handed you a small, plain box. No words, just a gentle tilt of his head.

You lifted the lid. It was empty.

For days, you carried it with you. Sometimes it felt heavy, sometimes light. Karim noticed—his eyes following, quiet, patient.

One evening, you opened it again. A memory bloomed: the first time he laughed at something only you could understand. Another flickered: the way he always tucked his hair behind his ear when he was nervous.

You didn’t speak, but you pressed your hand to the box. Karim smiled, a little shy, a little proud. He lifted his hand, touching yours, and for the first time, the emptiness felt full.