In a world that had forgotten all its colors, we were two weary figures made of ash and clay—patched together by yesterday's scars, wandering in the silence of a cold room. Yet sometimes, miracles lie right beneath the feet of those who no longer hope to see color. When our cracked hands lifted that crimson heart from the dust, we realized that love is not meant for the flawless. Love is the red yarn born from a single heartbeat, wrapping around our solitude and binding all our old stitches together. We didn’t just become whole; together, we came alive.