The Skeik building, in a quiet road off Omar al-Mukhtar Street in western Gaza City, was a familiar sight to Gaza's lovers.
The tree-lined street that ran beside it was once a favourite place for courting couples, eager to avoid Gaza's socially conservative gaze.
But the road nicknamed "Lovers' Street" – and the six-storey building that overlooks it – is now surrounded by rubble. There are few residents left who remember the old days. Those hiding here now are not running from Gaza's disapproval, but from Israeli tanks.
Gaza's war has left this once-glitzy neighbourhood in ruins. The smart shops and restaurants running down to the beach are now pockmarked with shrapnel and bullet holes, the park with its French-manicured trees, is buried under grey rubble.
The Skeik building itself is still standing, but its walls are now splattered by shrapnel and a large artillery-sized hole has punched through an upper floor. Its pre-war faces replaced by an ever-changing confetti of displaced people.
Two years after Gaza's war began, this one building offers a snapshot of how the conflict has eroded ties to home and community among Gaza's people, and what impact that has had.
The previous tenants of the Skeik building are long gone. Above the boarded-up storerooms on the ground floor, eight of the building's 10 apartments have become temporary homes for families displaced by the war.
Twenty-six-year-old Hadeel Daban lives on the fourth floor with her husband and three young children: nine-year-old Judi, six-year-old Murad and two-year-old Mohammad.
The family arrived here two months ago, paying 1,000 shekels ($305; £227) a month to camp in the empty rooms.
"The people who were here before us left because it was dangerous," Hadeel said. "Shrapnel hits the walls here, but it's still better than a tent."
The family's few belongings are neatly stashed in piles of bags along the walls. Torn sheets cover the gaping holes where the windows used to be. It's the 12th place the family has moved to.
"When loading our belongings on a cart, I put my children on top of it all and tell them to play with the items, like the kitchen stuff," Hadeel told me. "I tell them we're going to live a different life, a bit away from the one we had."
The family home stands less than a mile away, in Gaza City's al-Tuffah neighbourhood. They fled in the first week of the war, after a relative's apartment above theirs was hit.
They returned a few months later. But on 15 March 2024, a strike on the building next door to them killed Hadeel's mother-in-law, injured the three children and buried Hadeel's husband alive.
"We spent hours searching for him, and found him under the rubble," she said.
Her husband, Izz el-Din, was unconscious. They took him to al-Shifa hospital, where Hadeel says she was told her husband had a skull fracture and was in a coma.
Three days later, he was still being treated when Israel sealed the hospital and began a two-week military operation there, to root out Hamas command posts, it said.
It was only when Israeli forces finally withdrew that Hadeel was reunited with her husband, fragile but alive.
Hadeel told us he still needed regular medical checks. "I used to take him to a neurologist [in Gaza City], but six weeks ago all the doctors moved to the south," she said.
A home is not just shelter or belongings. And all three families we spoke to in the Skeik building had moved multiple times.
"None of my neighbours are my neighbours anymore, because new people come every month," Hadeel said. "I don't even know where my original neighbours are – some went south, some were killed or injured. There are no neighbours anymore."
On the day our colleague met Hadeel, Gaza City was emptying again as hundreds of thousands of people headed for safer areas further south.
The Israeli army, advancing through the city, had issued "a last warning" to leave. But the families we spoke to were planning on staying put.
While Hadeel was talking to our cameraman, a series of explosions echoed through the apartment.
Through the windows, huge grey clouds rose in the middle distance.
Neither of her young sons even flinched.