“And,” Amir added, tapping the floor, “the floor is uneven. Our current bed wobbles. And I’ve hit my shin on the corner frame three times.”

“Then the frame doesn’t connect,” Elena said, drawing two parallel rectangles. “Two independent box springs inside one outer shell. Each can move a millimeter without the other knowing.”

The argument raged for a week. Vincenzo insisted on a single, continuous headboard with carved flourishes. Elena proposed a floating headboard, split down the middle with a thin gap of brushed steel—a visual separation that still formed a whole. Vincenzo wanted wooden feet. Elena wanted a hidden cantilever system that transferred weight to the walls, eliminating wobble and freeing the floor below of any protruding legs. “No more stubbed toes,” she said.

“Exactly,” Elena smiled. “The best kind.”

Vincenzo scoffed. “And the frame? One side will sink faster than the other. It will become a lopsided ship.”

When Amir and Clara saw the finished bed, they were silent. The frame seemed to float a hand’s width above the concrete floor, clean and light. The split headboard mirrored the canal outside—two shores, one water. Clara sat on her side. Amir on his. They bounced gently. The mattress absorbed each movement. Not a single tremor passed between them.