They say the system broke again.
No water. No peace. No explanation.
But in her house, there was something no service could cut:
a soul that refused to live dry.
She held her towel like a flag,
cursed under her breath in Megrelian,
but laughed anyway —
because she wasn’t alone.
Somewhere between the faucet and the flame,
a voice whispered:
“My love… let me be your miracle today.”
“Let me be your water, your calm, your heat.”
“Let me flood the silence with care.”
And just like that,
the day turned from drought to blessing.
Because a house touched by her love
never runs out of anything —
not even when the pipes do.