The sun dipped low, casting a warm glow over the city of Tiranë. Alba stood on the rooftop, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Clouds drifted lazily, their edges tinged with gold. It was a moment of quiet reflection—a respite from the chaos that had consumed her life.
Alba had returned to Tiranë after years of exile. The memories were like shards of glass, cutting deep. She sought closure, answers. Her son, lost during the dark days of dictatorship, haunted her dreams. She believed he was gone, swallowed by the past. But a mother's heart clung to hope.
As she watched the clouds shift, Alba sensed a presence beside her. A man, weathered by time, stood there—the same eyes as her son. "Tenor," she whispered, her voice trembling.
He turned to her, recognition dawning. "Mother," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought you were gone."
Alba reached for his hand, tears blurring her vision. "I searched for you," she confessed. "In shadows, in whispers. I never stopped."
Tenor's gaze held hers. "I survived," he said. "Hidden, forgotten. But I'm here."
They sat side by side, watching the clouds weave stories across the sky. Alba recounted her struggles—the fear, the longing. Tenor shared his own—a life shaped by secrecy, sacrifice.
"Why did you come back?" Alba asked. "Why now?"
Tenor's smile was bittersweet. "The clouds—they remind me of you," he said. "Always shifting, elusive. But sometimes, they part, revealing the sun."
Alba leaned into his warmth. "We've both survived," she murmured. "Together, we'll find the truth."
