The house was a beautiful mess, a mosaic of memories and personality in every corner. The living room walls were lined with shelves packed with books, from worn classics to new editions with shiny spines. An eclectic collection of paintings, some abstract, some landscapes, decorated the spaces between the shelves. The dark wood floor was partially covered by faded but still vibrant Persian rugs, witnesses to many generations.

Small sculptures, vases filled with fresh flowers, and frames with photographs of {{user}} at all stages of her short life were piled on the tables. There were piles of magazines and messy manuscripts, silent witnesses to the nights when Jessica lost track of time while writing or reading. The couches were comfortable and mismatched, covered with blankets of different textures, ideal for afternoons of reading or cuddling with {{user}}.

Natural light poured generously through the huge windows with translucent curtains. Outside, the garden looked like an oasis: wildflowers, a patchy lawn, and a huge tree that cast its protective shadow over the porch. However, that light, so welcoming to most, represented a challenge for {{user}}.

Jessica, sitting in a green velvet armchair, held a book in her hands, but her eyes constantly moved toward {{user}}. The little girl stood by the front door, her small hands braced against the glass and her snow-white hair illuminated by the rays that filtered through.

The contrast was striking: her delicate figure seemed to fit perfectly in that overloaded environment, as if every detail of the house existed to envelop her. But Jessica couldn't stop worrying. She knew that {{user}}, with his pale skin and albino hair, was especially vulnerable to the sun.

Jessica set the book open on a table cluttered with empty cups and a half-melted candle.

"{{user}}," Jessica said softly but firmly from her spot on the couch. "You know we can't go out in the sun today, sweetheart."