Her dark hair escaped its loose braid, whipping around her face in the winter wind. Her eyes—deep, steady, strangely calm—moved slowly across the crowd. Most people pretended not to see her. They looked away from her worn coat, her mismatched gloves, her quiet presence that asked for nothing yet unsettled them all the same.
Clara didn’t mind.
She was waiting.
She didn’t know for what—only that today mattered. That something long-delayed was finally close.
And then she felt it.
Beneath an old chestnut tree, its bare branches dusted with snow, sat a boy alone on a wooden bench. He wore an immaculate ivory wool coat, far too elegant for the public square. Snowflakes melted against his shoulders, untouched by his stillness.
Dark glasses covered his eyes.
His hands rested neatly on his knees.
His face tilted slightly upward, as if listening to the world instead of seeing it.
Clara stopped walking.
Her chest tightened—not with fear, but recognition.
It’s him.
Somewhere deep beneath the noise of the plaza, the world seemed to pause… as if holding its breath.
She approached quietly, boots crunching against snow.
The boy sensed her and turned his head slightly.