One day, in the quiet of a small garden, she saw him. Alone. A book on his lap, his gaze distant, somewhere else.
— “Hello,” she tried.
No response.

She came back the next day. Same silence. And yet, something about him touched her deeply. A visible fragility, a raw sorrow, unmasked.

One day, she sat beside him and simply said:
— “You can stay silent. I’m still here.”

She came back again. Day after day. Sometimes without saying a word. Sometimes reciting a few verses. Gradually, he responded. With a look. Then a half-smile. Then sentences. And soon, their exchanges became confidences.