My neighbor—the one who has known solitude since my teenage years—has mastered the art of living for himself. His days unfold like the delicate petals of a desert rose, each note he strums and each key he be pressing, adds to the symphony of his existence. His guitar, weathered by countless chords, holds the echoes of forgotten dreams. But it's not just his music that intrigues me; it's the way he seems to know my innermost thoughts. How does he do it? How does he sing the words I've penned in the quiet of my room? The ink-stained pages of my notebooks hold stories of moonlit rendezvous, unspoken desires, and whispered confessions. Yet, when he strums his guitar, those very words spill forth from his lips. Is it magic? Or something more profound? He reminds me of the song Killing Me Softly by Fugees. And then there's the matter of my neighbor's looks--skin as freshly fallen snow and hair the color of chestnut and golden sunlight. His eyes hold a mystery I can't unravel. But it's the henna-dyed strands that bewilder me. Why do they mirror the musician's enigmatic locks? Could it be it was him all along? That's what I kept asking myself. One moonless night, as the city slept, I kept seeing the same face inside the car passing while looking out the window, and sometimes a person watching the boiling water in the other building and listening to every word I say to myself, and that's when recognition sparked. He was no distant legend; he was my neighbor, living just blocks away. How had he known my words? Why did he sing my stories? In whispered confessions, he revealed his burden. "I've carried your joys and sorrows," he confessed. "Your choices, your pain—they resonate in my chords." But he was no puppeteer; he yearned to break free. "We must rewrite our stories," he said. "Live the age that sings to our souls." Together, we embarked on a clandestine mission. I sought suitor-replacements among his family, while he composed symphonies that defied time. We whispered secrets in the moon's ear, and the city listened. Blessings flowed like notes on a staff, and lies crumbled like ancient manuscripts. In the village of the Christian people, our destinies converged. His songs echoed through cobblestone streets, and my words danced on the breeze. He vowed that everyone who knew him would understand the weight of losing a blessing like me. And so, my favorite people rise in the kingdom we are meant to build—a place where authenticity reigns, and the best souls find their harmony.