There was a particular hour in Lisbon when the city softened into itself.
Late afternoon, just before evening began to announce its intentions. The sun lowered without drama, light stretching across tiled rooftops and narrow streets, catching on windows and iron railings like something reluctant to leave. Elias had noticed it early on, that pause between day and night where nothing was demanded of anyone.
He had grown fond of it.
He found himself thinking about Amara during those hours now, though he did not allow the thought to linger long enough to become dangerous. It arrived quietly, like the memory of a song you once loved but had not heard in years.
Three days had passed since they spoke.
Three days since she had said his name out loud, and somehow changed the way it sounded.
Elias told himself he did not expect to see her again that afternoon. He went to the café anyway, carrying his notebook like a habit rather than a hope. The chair by the window was available. It always was. He took it, ordered his coffee, and waited for nothing in particular.
Outside, the street glistened faintly from earlier rain. A tram moved slowly uphill, its bell ringing with gentle insistence. He opened his notebook, reread the single sentence he had written days ago, and closed it again.
*Some connections do not announce themselves. They wait.*
He wondered if that was true, or simply something he wanted to believe.
The bell above the café door rang.
This time, he looked up.
Amara stepped inside, her coat lighter than before, hair pulled back loosely at the nape of her neck. She paused, just as she always did, giving herself a moment to absorb the space. When she saw him, her expression shifted—not into surprise, but something quieter. Relief, perhaps. Or recognition.
She walked over without hesitation.
"Hello, Elias," she said.
He stood instinctively, then felt foolish and sat again. "Hi."
She smiled, amused but kind. "You don't have to get up every time."
"I wasn't—" He stopped, then laughed softly. "Sorry. Habit."
"From what?" she asked, sitting across from him.
He considered the question. "From being careful."
She nodded, as if that answered more than he intended.
They ordered together this time—coffee for him, tea for her. The familiarity settled between them gently, not intrusive, not demanding. For a while, they spoke of nothing at all. The comfort of shared silence surprised him again. He had forgotten how rare it was.
"Do you live nearby?" she asked eventually.
"Not far," he said. "A few streets over. You?"
"I'm staying with a friend for now," she replied. "Temporary, but… comfortable."
There was something deliberate in the way she said it, as if comfort was a condition she no longer took for granted.
He didn't ask why.
Instead, he asked, "What brings you to Lisbon?"
She looked out the window before answering. "I needed a place that didn't know me."
He felt the answer settle somewhere familiar. "That makes sense."
"Does it?" She turned back to him, curious. "Or does it just sound like it should?"
"It makes sense to me," he said quietly.
They exchanged a look then—one of those brief, unguarded moments where something unsaid passed between them. She didn't smile. Neither did he. It didn't feel necessary.
When she stood to leave, Elias surprised himself.
"Would you like to walk?" he asked.
The words had escaped before caution could intervene. He braced himself for polite refusal, for the careful distance she had maintained until now.
She considered him for a moment. Then she nodded. "Yes. I would."
Outside, the air was cool and clean, the city unfolding around them with effortless beauty. They walked without destination, side by side, their steps unconsciously aligning. Elias noticed small things—the way she tilted her head when she listened, the way her hands moved when she spoke, expressive without excess.
"Do you always walk this quietly?" she asked after a while.
He smiled. "Is that a complaint?"
"No," she said quickly. "It's… refreshing."
They crossed a narrow bridge, paused briefly to watch the river catch the last light of day. The water moved steadily, unconcerned with observation.
"I used to talk more," Elias said suddenly.
She glanced at him, not interrupting.
"I used to believe that if I could explain myself well enough, nothing would be misunderstood."
"And now?" she asked.
"Now I think silence says what words can't survive."
She nodded slowly. "I think silence protects what words sometimes destroy."
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and felt the truth of her words resonate somewhere deep.
They walked until the sky darkened fully, streetlights flickering on one by one. When they stopped, it was unspoken but understood that the walk had reached its natural end.
"I'm glad you asked me to come," she said.
"So am I."
They parted with no promises, no plans for the next meeting. Yet as Elias watched her disappear into the street, he felt something unmistakable settle into place.
Not hope.
Possibility.
That night, Elias wrote.
The words came hesitantly at first, like something testing the ground. Then they gathered confidence, spilling onto the page with a familiarity that startled him. He did not write about Amara directly. He wrote about waiting, about the spaces between people, about the courage it took to let someone walk beside you without knowing where the road led.
He wrote until his hand ached.
When he finally stopped, he leaned back and closed his eyes, breath unsteady. It frightened him—how easily the words had returned. How closely they followed her presence, even when she was not there.
He told himself it was coincidence.
He did not believe it.
Amara lay awake long after returning to her friend's apartment.
She stared at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the city beyond the window. She replayed the walk in fragments—the sound of his voice, the calm of his presence, the way he had asked without expectation.
She had told herself she was not ready for anything new. Had built her life around that certainty, brick by careful brick.
Yet something about Elias felt different. Not urgent. Not consuming. Simply… present.
That was what unsettled her most.
She turned onto her side, exhaled slowly.
She did not know where this would lead.
But for the first time in a long while, she found herself willing to walk forward without needing to know.