It started with music.
One lazy afternoon, you sat by the open window with your old guitar, fingers brushing the strings like they remembered something your mind didn't have to think about. I was in the kitchen, humming along to your rhythm without realizing it like a habit we were born with.
The melody was soft, improvised, unpolished and still, it felt like the truest sound I had ever heard. It wasn't just a song. It was the heartbeat of our home.
I left the dishes half-done and walked over, leaning against the wall, letting myself melt into the moment. You looked up, smiling that quiet, knowing smile, and began to sing not loudly, not perfectly, but like the words were meant only for me.
Every lyric carried pieces of our story. A garden blooming. Rain on the windows. Midnight confessions. Unsent letters. Kisses that spoke more than entire conversations.
When you finished, you placed the guitar beside you and reached for my hand.
"I never thought I'd find home in a place," you whispered. "Until I found it in you."
And that's when I realized it wasn't the walls around us, the town we moved to, or even the new chapter we had begun. It was your voice, your presence, the way we found music in silence that was home.