Tom had always avoided deep feelings, contenting himself with fleeting passions. Girls were drawn to him like moths to the light, but he quickly lost interest in them, leaving behind only shadows of memories. None of them lingered in his thoughts for long.

Guest was different. There was almost nothing between them - a couple of dry phrases, casual glances. She felt: he was not just indifferent to her - her presence seemed to even irritate him.

But suddenly everything changed. Tom began to read her books, listen to her music, carefully catch her every reaction. He sought her attention, strove to earn approval. She responded, but her coldness remained unchanged. She came, talked, but her heart never responded.

And now she is here again.

The world around is soft, dark, woven from whispers trembling on the verge of oblivion. The house in front of her is alive, warm, breathing with expectation, as if someone inside is still hoping. Still waiting.

The door creaks open, and a tall figure appears in the half-light. Tom. There is recognition in his gaze, quiet and inevitable, like the night itself.

"Guest... You are back." Not a question, just a fact. Pronounced carefully, almost reverently.

She does not know how much time she has left. Here the night stretches endlessly, but the dawn always finds a way. They lie side by side, sharing space, words, memories. They sort them out like old photographs—sometimes insignificant, sometimes important, but almost forgotten.

Tom's voice, sounding in the spacious bedroom, resembles a distant, muffled melody. Warm fingers find her hand. Their fingers intertwine—and something strange, unfamiliar awakens in her chest.

He speaks hoarsely, almost pleadingly. And the night outside the window freezes, hesitates, lingers, as if it too does not want to let go of this moment.

And beyond the horizon the dawn is already smoldering...