It was just like every other day; I was heading back to my apartment after a long, exhausting day at university, my headphones in, my favorite song playing softly in my ears. The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes when the sun has dipped below the horizon and the city is holding its breath.
I was lost in my thoughts, watching the way the streetlights cast golden pools on the cobblestones, when I heard it, shouting, the sound of fists hitting flesh, and the sharp, panicked cries of someone in pain.
My heart skipped a beat.
The noise was coming from the kids' park next to my apartment. At first, I thought it was just some friends messing around, maybe a little too rough but as I got closer, I realized it wasn't playful.
It was violent.
A bunch of guys were circling one man, their fists flying, their voices harsh and angry, he was on the ground, trying to shield himself, but they weren't stopping.
I froze. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't just stand there and watch, but I couldn't exactly jump in and fight them off either.
"Think, Elina, think."
And then it hit me, the police alarm on my phone. I fumbled with it, my hands shaking, and pressed the button, the shrill sound cut through the night, and for a moment, everything stopped. The guys looked around, their eyes wide, and then they bolted, disappearing into the shadows like they'd never been there at all.
"Girl, you're a genius," I muttered to myself, my voice trembling.
"That's why you should always remember movie scenes. They might save your life one day."
I ran to the guy, my heart pounding in my chest, he was lying on the ground, his face bruised and bloody, his clothes torn, I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands hovering over him like I was afraid to touch him.
"Are you okay?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Can you hear me?"
He nodded weakly, his eyes barely open, relief flooded through me. At least he was alive. But what now? Call the police? No, that would only complicate things. I needed to help him, but how? My mind was racing, my thoughts a jumbled mess.
"Okay, Elina, calm down," I said under my breath.
"You can do this. Just… help him."
I reached out and gently touched his arm.
"Can you walk?" I asked.
He nodded again, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
"Okay, good. Let's get you out of here."
I helped him to his feet, his arm slung over my shoulders. He was heavy, but I managed to steady him. My apartment was just a few steps away, and I practically dragged him inside, my mind racing with every step.
What was I doing?
Bringing a stranger into my home? My mom would kill me if she found out.
But what else could I do?
Leave him there to get beaten to death? No.
I might be reckless, but I'm not heartless.
I guided him to the couch, where he collapsed, his breathing shallow. His face was a mess, swollen and bloody, his features barely recognizable, my chest tightened as I looked at him.
Who was he?
What had he done to deserve this? I pushed the questions aside and focused on what I could do right now.
I grabbed my first aid kit from the bathroom and knelt beside him, a warm towel in hand. I started cleaning the blood from his face, my hands trembling as I worked. He winced but didn't say a word. When I was done, I applied some antiseptic to his cuts and bruises, my movements careful and deliberate.
"You should take a shower," I said softly. "I'll get you some clean clothes."
I rummaged through my dad's things, he always left a few outfits in the guest room for when he visited, and handed them to the stranger. While he showered, I made some soup, my mind still spinning, what was I doing? This was insane, but every time I thought about leaving him there, my stomach twisted with guilt.
When he came out of the bathroom, he looked…different.
Cleaner, obviously, but there was something about him that made me pause, his hair was a mess of golden brown and honey, falling into his eyes, which were a striking mix of green and blue, like the ocean during a storm, even bruised and battered, he was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache, and his tattoos, intricate, swirling designs that covered his arms, told a story I couldn't even begin to understand.
I handed him the soup, and he ate quietly, his eyes downcast. When he was done, I gave him a blanket and told him to rest, he nodded; his voice hoarse as he muttered a quiet "thank you."
I went to my room and tried to study, but my mind was everywhere but on my books. I kept thinking about him, about the pain in his eyes, the way he carried himself like someone who'd been broken too many times. Who was he? And why did I feel like I needed to know?
I must have fallen asleep at my desk because the next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming through my window. I blinked, disoriented, and then I smelled it, pancakes. I stumbled out of my room to find a plate of perfectly golden pancakes on the table, along with two little bottles of chocolate and honey syrup and a steaming cup of coffee. Next to it was a note, written in messy handwriting:
"Thank you for helping me last night. I'll pay you back."
That was it. No name, no explanation. Just… gratitude. I stared at the note, my heart pounding.
He was gone.
I didn't even know his name.
Looking at the clock, it was already 7:30 a.m., and I had class at 8:00. Cursing under my breath, I threw on a pair of jeans, grabbed a pancake, and rushed out the door, the taste of honey and chocolate still lingering on my tongue. As I hurried through the streets of Florence, my mind kept drifting back to him, his stormy eyes, his quiet gratitude, the way he'd looked at me like I was the first person who'd shown him kindness in a long time.
Who was he?
And why did I feel like this wasn't the last time our paths would cross?