When we found the others again, Miroslav was explaining something to Keiko with great authority and Keiko was nodding with the patient expression of someone counting to ten. Emiliano had apparently found a cat in the garden and was now entirely focused on it. The afternoon had that loose, unhurried quality that comes at the end of a good day, when there’s nowhere left to be.
We had a flight in the morning. There were logistics, there were taxis, there was the whole machinery of going home. None of that felt urgent yet.
On the walk back to the tea house, Rosa fell into step beside me and her hand brushed mine once, lightly, without either of us making a thing of it. We didn’t speak. The blossoms were still falling. Emiliano was still narrating his cat encounter to anyone who would listen. Miroslav had located a second guidebook attraction within walking distance and was building momentum.
And I thought: this is it. This is the moment I didn’t let myself have before. This ordinary, extraordinary, petal-scattered afternoon.
I didn’t say that out loud. I didn’t need to either.
By the time we reached the tea house entrance again, the light had gone golden at the edges, the way it does in late afternoon when the clouds thin just before dusk. Rosa paused at the low stone wall, looking back at the canal and the trees. One hand rested lightly on the stone. A few petals drifted past her, unhurried.
I stood beside her, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched, and we both just looked at it for a moment — the pink and the grey and the water and the quiet — before going back inside.
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