Aser left the café shortly after, as if the air inside had grown too heavy for him to breathe. He walked along the harbor's edge with hesitant steps, the fog still crawling over the water like a thick shroud. He tried to convince himself to forget that fleeting moment, but her face followed him—an unshakable shadow carved into his mind.
He stopped at a stone barrier overlooking the sea. The waves broke slowly, carrying with them a hidden murmur, a call that only he seemed to hear. The creak of ropes against the masts mingled with the cries of gulls, while the sharp scent of salt stung his nose. Everything around him seemed to conspire to awaken something long dormant within.
What had a single glance done to me? he wondered.
He wasn't used to being shaken like this. For years he had kept the world at a safe distance. Even in the harshest moments—when his mother left him suddenly, leaving him adrift and alone—he never allowed himself to crumble before others. Composure had been his shield, solitude his armor. But now, that distance had collapsed in an instant, without asking his permission.
He lingered at the seawall for what felt like an eternity. An old woman passed by, carrying a basket of fish, with a laughing child running after her. For a moment, Aser felt suffocated: how could the world move on so naturally while his own heart was in disarray?
Later, he returned to his narrow room in the old quarter. A small window overlooked winding alleys alive with the voices of merchants. Books lay scattered across a worn table, beside a creaking wooden chair. The walls, peeling and faded, held a single photograph of his mother's serene face. For a fleeting instant, even the room seemed to shrink, mirroring his inability to express what weighed on him.
He sat down and picked up his pen. He wrote his first line:
I saw her, and my soul trembled as though I were a stranger among humankind.
He read it, then struck it out with irritation.
He tried again:
Her gaze was like a fleeting dream, but one that refused to end.
He stopped, then threw the pen aside.
The words betrayed him. Language itself seemed to turn against him, refusing to carry the weight of this newfound confusion.
Yet as he sat there, fragments of the café returned to him—the way her hand brushed the page, the tilt of her head, the brief shimmer of light on her hair as she looked up. Everything had been ordinary, fleeting. And yet, it felt etched into him, as if carved in stone.
Restless, he rose from his chair and walked to the window. He cracked it open, letting the cold night air in, only to see that the fog had already seeped into the alleys as well. For an instant, he imagined that if he reached out his hand, he might find her standing at the end of the lane, watching him in silence. His heart jolted, and he slammed the window shut.
He tried to distract himself with a worn book from the table, but his eyes refused to catch on the words. The pages looked empty, as though the letters themselves had abandoned him. He remembered the same helplessness years ago, when he wanted to write a farewell letter to his mother but couldn't. This time, it wasn't loss—it was something new, something undefined, that he couldn't approach.
Throwing himself onto the bed, he stared at the ceiling. Cracked wood and faded stains blurred into hazy lines, reshaping themselves into her face. He raised his hand slowly, almost reaching for the illusion, but pulled back abruptly—as if afraid the vision would vanish at his touch
That night, sleep refused him. He tossed and turned on the narrow mattress, listening to the alleyway sounds: the mewl of a hungry cat, hurried footsteps of a late passerby, the clang of a metal door. He shut his eyes, but her image only grew clearer in the darkness, more vivid than in daylight.
Will I see her again? he asked himself. Or was it nothing more than a passing accident?
He tried to convince himself it was just a moment, a trick of the heart. But deep within, he knew a thread had already formed—an invisible thread, pulling silently, with the sea itself as witness.
Before a restless sleep finally claimed him, he heard the distant chime of a clock echoing through the fog, like a call from another time. He pulled the blanket over his body, but his heart remained exposed, restless. He knew tomorrow would not be ordinary. Something had begun—and there was no turning back.