For Sandro, this courtyard wasn't just a place; it was a museum of memories. He closed his eyes and could almost hear the laughter from the previous summer—the clinking of wine glasses and the sound of Elena’s voice.
"You called?" Elena whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustle of the leaves.
Sandro leaned over the railing, a slow smile breaking the melancholy of his song. "I never stopped."