The voice came first.
It sounded distant, like someone speaking from the other side of a memory.
Warm.
Honest.
"You know something?"
A quiet pause followed, the kind that comes when someone is searching for the right way to say something important.
"I always liked talking about my dreams with ***."
In the background, the faint sound of rope sliding through fingers could be heard.
Soft.
Almost delicate.
The voice continued, calm and reflective.
"Most people don't really listen when you talk about your dreams."
A small laugh escaped the speaker.
"They nod. They pretend. They wait for you to finish so they can talk about themselves."
The rope formed a loop.
Behind the voice, *** stood in the dim room near a wooden chair.
His hands moved slowly.
Carefully.
As if he were solving a puzzle that required patience.
"But with him…"
The voice softened slightly.
"He actually listens."
The rope passed through his fingers again.
A knot slowly began to form.
Not rushed.
Not messy.
Just quiet movements repeating themselves.
"He doesn't interrupt."
The knot tightened.
"He doesn't laugh."
*** pulled gently on the rope, testing the tension.
"And he doesn't look bored."
The chair scraped lightly against the floor as *** moved it a few centimeters closer to the center of the room.
The sound was small but sharp in the silence.
The voice kept speaking.
Almost fondly.
"You know how rare that is?"
*** adjusted the rope again.
His fingers were steady.
Not nervous.
Just precise.
"To feel like the things you say actually matter to someone."
The chair stood now in a beam of fading sunlight coming through the window.
Dust floated lazily in the orange light.
The voice sounded a little nostalgic now.
"Sometimes I'd start talking about something stupid."
A faint chuckle.
"Like how one day I wanted to build something big. Something that people would remember."
*** turned the chair slightly.
Making sure it was stable.
"And he never told me it was impossible."
The rope hung quietly in his hands again.
"He would just sit there."
Listening.
Thinking.
The sunlight outside was beginning to turn red.
"And then he'd say something simple."
*** looked down at the knot again.
Tightened it slightly.
"Something small that made the idea feel… real."
The voice paused.
As if remembering something important.
"That's why I like talking to him."
*** pushed his hair back slowly with the back of his hand.
His expression stayed calm.
Quiet.
Almost empty.
"There are a lot of people in the world."
The voice became softer.
"But friends like that…"
The rope brushed lightly against the wooden chair as he lifted it again.
"…are rare."
The chair legs touched the floor once more.
Perfectly balanced.
The room had grown darker now.
The sunset outside painted the walls in deep orange.
"And honestly…"
The voice continued.
"There's no one I would trade him for."
A long silence followed.
The kind of silence that feels full rather than empty.
Behind the voice, *** stood still for a moment.
The rope rested loosely in his hands.
The chair waited quietly in the center of the room.
The light from the window slowly reached his face.
The voice spoke again.
Gentler now.
More direct.
"Right, Cri?"
For a moment nothing happened.
Then—
Cri lifted his head slightly.
His eyes had looked dull for so long.
Tired.
Heavy.
Like someone who had already stopped expecting anything from the world.
But now—
For the first time—
Something changed.
The light from the sunset touched his eyes.
And suddenly they shone.
Not brightly.
Not with joy.
But with a fragile, quiet warmth that hadn't been there before.
Like a small spark buried under too much ash.
For the first time in a long time, his eyes looked alive.
He breathed in slowly.
Then answered.
"Yeah…"
His voice was calm.
Soft.
Honest.
"I love listening to you too, Giacomo."
The room fell silent again.
Outside, the sun continued sinking behind the horizon.
And the last light of the day filled the room in quiet orange shadows.