The sun gently pierced through the faded curtains of the small bedroom, illuminating the withered floral patterns on the wallpaper. It had been nearly six months since I started living here, in this house that had become a refuge, a bubble separate from the outside world. Anna and Paolo, who had taken me in after the accident, were much more than hosts. Over time, they had become a family, an anchor to which I clung in the face of the emptiness in my memory.
I got up, stretching slowly to awaken my sore muscles. Though the room was modest, every detail was now familiar to me: the old dark wooden dresser, the worn-out armchair in the corner, and the knitted blanket that warmed me each night. This house had become my home, even though, deep down, I knew it was only a temporary haven.
