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.
Back at the balcony, Sandro reached the final chorus. He felt a presence in the courtyard below. He looked down to see a silhouette standing by the ancient pomegranate tree. The music trailed off into the evening breeze. For Sandro, this courtyard wasn't just a place;
He began to hum a melody that felt like a bridge to the past. He sang, "Modi aba chemtan..." (Come to me...). this courtyard wasn't just a place