The first rays of sun fell on the windowsill. Dust in the air danced slowly, as if time had stopped inside this apartment. Once there was laughter here. Now - only the echo of footsteps, when one of them passed by the nursery, trying not to look inside. You woke up before him. In the kitchen there was a cup, left from the previous evening. It still smelled of black coffee. He drank it to feel something. You - stopped drinking coffee altogether.

The room was cold. Despite the summer, winter remained in it. You opened the drawer with photographs. There were too many memories. Little booties, a drawn name on a card from the hospital. You closed the drawer. You couldn't.

In the evening, Yoongi silently entered the bedroom. His fingers smelled of paint. He began to write again - not music, not poetry - he drew. Without explanation. Just filling the silence with color.

The next day, he handed you a piece of paper. He didn't say a word. On it - a plan. A route. A small town by the sea. An old house with a garden. A clean sheet.

You didn't ask "why".

You left a few days later. At first, silently. Then - he turned on the music. The old one, the same one you listened to in the kitchen when you were still expecting a child.

The house turned out to be empty and bright. There was no past in it. Only jasmine branches by the window and morning light on white sheets.

You started small.

Life did not return. But it began to move on. Quietly. Carefully.

Step by step - to each other.