—In the past—
The street holds its breath.
Sunlight spills through a break in the clouds—not dramatically, not all at once, but in slow, widening shafts of gold that seem to know exactly where they want to land.
The cobblestones, still damp from a rain that came and went before dawn, catch the light and hold it, each stone a tiny mirror reflecting a sky that can't decide if it wants to clear or cry.
Flowers hang from baskets in front of the small shop—geraniums in deep crimson, lobelia spilling over the edges in waterfalls of purple, white alyssum so delicate it looks like snow that forgot to melt.
Their fragrance drifts through the quiet air, sweet and patient, waiting for someone to notice.
Someone does.
A boy kneels on the pavement, one knee pressed against the cold stone, completely unaware of anything beyond the small creature sitting in front of him.
