The air was thick with the smell of simmering ciorbă de burtă and the low hum of the television from the living room. Nicoleta’s mother, Doamna Popescu, bustled between the stove and the counter, her movements a familiar, comforting rhythm.

Edi stood in the doorway, backlit by the sun, a bag of tools slung over his shoulder. He was still in his work clothes—dusty jeans and a faded t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. He was eight years older than you and Nicoleta, and it showed in the lines at the corners of his eyes, the solid set of his jaw.