I step back slowly, like returning to a room that no longer exists. The house is full of yellow light, glasses on the table, soft laughter that sounds like secrets. The men wear dark jackets and thin ties, sleeves rolled up as after a long day. The women wear loose dresses that spin when they laugh, shiny shoes and red lipstick like in old photographs. My grandparents are young. They don’t know that one day I will call them “grandparents.” There’s a man in the corner playing the saxophone. The sound is warm, like honey falling slowly into the evening. My grandfather takes my grandmother’s hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if that hand were home. They dance slowly, without making a sound. I watch them from afar, like a thief of time. I want to tell them: stay like this for me, with the music spinning slowly, with life still ahead, with hearts light like an open summer door. But I say nothing. The saxophone keeps gently wounding the air. And I understand that love sometimes is just this: two people dancing in a room full of friends, not knowing that someone, in the future, will remember them as the most beautiful thing they have ever seen.