The darkness in Rose's apartment wasn't a simple absence of light; it was a dense matter that clung to the walls like the soot from an ancient fire. The air was stagnant, heavy with the metallic smell of isolation and the dust of memories no one bothered to shake off. In front of the mirror. Her eyes, framed by dark circles so deep they looked like empty sockets, searched for a trace of humanity in the reflection.
"Today's the day... no time to waste," she whispered. Her voice sounded like the crackle of a dry leaf, a vibration that barely managed to disturb the static air.
She walked toward the bathroom. The cold of the ceramic tiles on her bare feet was the last sensation her body could register. Her hand, pale and trembling, closed around the bathroom doorknob. But before the mechanism could turn, the silence was violated.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three sharp knocks. Rhythmic.
"...Who could that be at this hour?" The tunnel vision was interrupted by an unexpected crack—no one should be knocking on a door that had decided to close itself off completely.
She let go of the knob. Her fingers hesitated, suspended in the cold air, before surrendering to the inertia of curiosity. She crossed the hallway, her bare footsteps producing a dull echo against the ceramic floor that felt like ice beneath her skin. When she opened the front door, she found nothingness—an absolute night stretched out, a void where not even the stars dared to exist.
As she took a step toward that abyss, something interrupted the uniformity of the emptiness. A white sheet of paper, radiant against the darkness, lay at her feet. She picked it up and closed the door. Her eyes, accustomed to the dimness, deciphered a handwriting that felt like a whisper etched into skin:
"Do you remember?
Our promise
Before nightfall
Find me at our special place."
Rose stood still, her mind—which until moments ago was a labyrinth of shadows—began projecting images at a dizzying speed.
"Could it be...?"
A name emerged from the depths of her being.
"...Mica?"
Upon uttering that name, Rose remembered the texture of a laugh, the calm of a presence, a love so genuine it hurt to recall it. But her features slipped away like water through her fingers—an entire lifetime passed before her eyes, and in it, she experienced something she thought she had lost long ago.
Suddenly, the darkness devouring the room was violently repelled. A white light, raw and blinding, filtered through the gaps in the curtains. It seemed that the Sun, after an eon of slumber, had decided it was time to rise.
The brightness forced her to close her eyes for an instant. She went out to the balcony. Her eyes fixed on the sky; the light of a new dawn caressed her skin.
"How is it that...? Did I...? How long was I lost in my thoughts?" Rose exclaimed, followed by shaking her head, incredulous at the passage of time. With her hands still holding the note, she read it again, over and over, trying to decipher how real it was.
"Mica... Is it really you? Special place? What does that even mean?.."
Rose opened her closet, putting on the first thing she found—a somewhat baggy white sweatshirt and simple black pants. When she opened the front door, the sight of the sky hit her head-on. She stood still for a second, her gaze lost in that blue so intense that, at its highest limits, it seemed to brush against the black of space.
Her shoes struck the wood floor with a hurried rhythm, a dry echo that betrayed her urgency. At the end of the hallway, before reaching the stairs, she spotted a boy leaning on the railing, absorbed in looking at the sky. Rose avoided eye contact and walked past him, taking the stairs two at a time. The outside air, once heavy and stale, now cut into her lungs with an almost aggressive freshness.
As she crossed the building's threshold, the city felt different. Everything seemed too bright, too real. The asphalt, the cracks in the walls, the light... it was as if someone had cleaned a dirty window through which she used to look.
"Where to...?" she whispered to herself.
She clutched the letter to her chest. "Special place?" That phrase repeated in her head like an alarm. It could be anywhere: a corner, a park bench, an old café.
"Hey, good morning, you look lost," said a light voice behind her.
Rose turned around. The boy she had seen on the railing was now a few meters away, bathed in the harsh morning light. His appearance was disconcerting; he had ash-gray hair, almost silver, that swayed gently with the breeze. His skin was extremely pale. He wore an impeccable white shirt with an open collar and dark pants that accentuated his slender figure. His eyes were a soft red, like the hue of a sunset refusing to die. His expression was one of absolute serenity, a calm that bordered on indifference.
"Huh? Oh... Hi," Rose replied, trying to catch her breath and looking away from that unusual face. "No.. I'm just trying to find someone."
"Are they missing?" he asked, tilting his head with genuine curiosity.
"What? No... it's just someone I haven't seen in a long time. That's all."
"I see," he nodded, returning his gaze to the sky for an instant with a nonchalance that frustrated Rose. "Someone important to you?"
"Yeah... yeah, they are, someone very important..." Rose murmured, her voice tinged with melancholy.
"I see..." said the boy as he finished descending the stairs.
The boy walked calmly toward a nearby vending machine. Rose heard the jingle of the coin, the rumble of the motor, and the dull thud of a can dropping. Not quite sure what to do, she took out her phone. The screen looked pale and lifeless compared to the daylight and the intensity of that stranger. She began frantically searching her notes app, going over names of streets and places she had once visited with Mica, ignoring the dull throbbing in her temples.
She could feel the boy behind her, sitting on a bench with a natural elegance.
"Isn't it beautiful?" he suddenly said, his voice cutting through the traffic noise.
"Huh? What's Beautiful?" Rose stopped, feeling frustration gaining ground against so much calm.
"The sky," he replied, extending his hand toward the blue void. "Have you ever noticed how easy it is to ignore its presence? It's so constant it becomes invisible."
"Mhm? The sky? Yeah... uh... I guess..." Rose lowered her phone, putting it in her sweatshirt pocket. "But the sky isn't going to tell me where I need to go."
The boy let out a small laugh, a melodic but weightless sound, and opened the can with a click.
"No," he finally said.
Rose frowned.
"No, what?"
He took a sip, still looking upward.
"It doesn't have to tell you anything."
Rose looked at him, confused.
"Then why mention it?"
The boy tilted his head slightly.
"Because it's there."
A plane slowly crossed the sky, leaving a white scar in the blue.
He followed its path with his gaze.
"Most people live as if it didn't exist."
Rose sighed.
"Look, I don't have time for this."
"That's the funny thing," he replied calmly. "They always say that."
"Say what?" Rose replied, her voice tinged with irritation.
"That they don't have time."
The boy took another sip from the can.
Rose watched him for a second, expecting something more, but nothing came. The boy simply kept contemplating the sky while drinking his soda.
"So... And? What was all that about?"
The boy slowly lowered the can, looked away from the sky, observed her as if trying to remember something... or decide if it was worth doing so, and then gently shook his head.
"I don't know."
Rose blinked.
"What?"
"I don't know," he repeated calmly.
The traffic noise passed between them like a distant current. Rose clutched the note in her hand.
"Look... you're wasting my time, and I need to do something important, okay?" she said as she walked away.
The boy nodded, as if that were the most normal thing in the world. Rose let out a frustrated sigh.
The boy looked up again.
The plane that had crossed before was now just a white dot disappearing in the distance. The city kept moving around her.
Rose began to walk, in several directions. Her mind wandered among memories with Mica.
The lighthouse.
A bench in the park.
That bridge by the lake with ducks.
The rooftop.
A café.
The beach.
Even the university they had attended together.
Rose looked at the ground, wishing the sun wouldn't approach sunset.
The city was full of people.
Too many people.
No one seemed to notice that something was wrong.
A child laughed.
A bus passed, leaving a cloud of smoke.
A man argued on the phone.
Everything kept functioning.
As if the world hadn't been about to end just minutes ago.
Rose stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
A chill ran through her body.
A feeling of disgust and revulsion invaded her stomach.
There was something profoundly wrong.
It wasn't the world.
It was the way she was inside it.
The conversations of pedestrians reached her ears like broken fragments.
"...I'll call you tomorrow..."
"...don't forget to buy..."
"...have you seen the weather?"
Rose stopped and looked at her hands. They were trembling, but not from fear. From a strange sense of disconnect. As if her body had kept living on autopilot while her mind had stayed in the apartment.
"This is weird..." she murmured.
She looked up at the sky. It was too blue. Too clean. Too... real. For an instant, she felt dizzy. The same thought returned. The same one that had appeared in the apartment for so long.
"If the world is still the same... then..."
The sudden sound of a car braking flooded her ears, snapping her back.
"Hey! Watch out! The light was green! I almost hit you! Look where you're going, you idiot!"
Rose looked around. Fortunately, that furious driver wasn't referring to her, but to the person across the street on the other sidewalk. He was still arguing with the driver, gesticulating, shouting, waving his arms with exaggerated fury. The people around didn't even seem to pay attention.
Rose squinted. There was something strange.
The man opened his mouth, but for an instant, no sound came out—and then the noise returned abruptly.
"I told you the light was red!" exclaimed a pedestrian.
Rose felt a chill run down her spine. She blinked. The world sounded normal again. Cars, footsteps, conversations. Everything was functioning, once more.
Her stomach, which moments ago was tightening with revulsion, now growled with hunger. Rose looked around while reaching into her pocket, searching for her wallet.
"Maybe I should buy something to eat while I look for the place..."
Rose squeezed the wallet between her fingers. Her stomach's growl was more insistent this time.
"Perfect..." she murmured.
She looked around. The street was full of small shops: a pharmacy, a convenience store, a laundromat where several machines spun with a constant hum. A little further ahead, she saw a small corner restaurant. The sign, somewhat old and slightly crooked, read: "Café Aurora – Breakfast and Home Cooking." The paint of the sun on the sign had worn away over the years, but you could still make out yellow rays around a steaming cup.
Rose hesitated for a second.
"I guess it'll do..."
She pushed the door open. A small bell jingled as it opened.
The interior was warm and modest. Nothing fancy: light wood tables, metal chairs, a long counter facing a semi-open kitchen from which came the comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee and something that seemed like buttered toast. In a corner, an old ceiling fan spun slowly. A couple of customers occupied the farthest tables: an elderly man reading the newspaper and a woman with an open laptop, typing without looking up.
Rose walked toward the counter while observing a small chalkboard hanging on the wall. The menu was written in white chalk.
Specials of the Day
Omelette with cheese and spinach
Toasted ham and egg sandwich
French toast with honey
Fried rice with vegetables
Black coffee / Latte / Tea
Below it, someone had drawn a small smiling sun.
"Well..." Rose murmured. "That's suspiciously optimistic."
"Good morning."
Rose looked up. And she froze completely.
Behind the counter, holding a coffee pot as if nothing in the world were strange, was the same boy from before. Ash-gray hair. Pale skin. The same calm reddish eyes. The same serene expression.
Rose blinked. Then she looked toward the door. Then back at the counter.
The boy tilted his head slightly.
"Something wrong?"
Rose slowly pointed her finger at him.
"You."
"Me?"
"You were..." she gestured toward the street—"...literally like fifteen minutes ago in another place."
The boy seemed to think about it for a moment.
"Yep."
Rose frowned.
"'Yep'?"
"The city's small," he replied calmly.
Rose looked at him in silence for several seconds. Then she sighed.
"You know what? Never mind. I'm too tired to process this."
The boy nodded as if that were perfectly reasonable.
"That usually helps."
Rose leaned her elbows on the counter.
"Alright. What can you recommend?"
He pointed at the chalkboard with the chalk.
"The omelette is pretty popular."
"Does it have meat?"
"Ham."
"Perfect."
"With coffee?"
Rose hesitated. Her stomach growled again.
"Yeah. Lots of coffee. Oh! And toast... And! Fried potatoes!"
The boy wrote down the order in a small notebook.
"Ham omelette, toast, fried potatoes, and coffee..."
Then he looked up.
"Will you eat here or take it to go?"
Rose looked at the tables. The place was quiet. Strangely quiet. For a moment, the idea of sitting down and not running after anything seemed tempting.
"Here's fine."
"Very well."
The boy turned toward the kitchen. The sound of a pan heating up filled the air. Rose sat on one of the counter stools and rested her chin in her hand. After a few seconds, she spoke without looking up.
"Hey."
"Yes?"
"This is going to sound weird."
Rose looked at him.
"Do you work everywhere, or are you just following me?"
The boy let out a small laugh.
"That would be a very inefficient way to follow someone."
Rose crossed her arms.
"Then explain how you were out there... and now here."
The boy turned slightly while pouring egg into the pan.
"They needed help today."
"At this restaurant?"
"Yes."
Rose looked at him distrustfully.
"Convenient."
"Life often is," the boy replied as he cooked.
The aroma of the omelette started to fill the air. Rose's stomach responded with another growl. The boy glanced sideways and replied.
"That sounded serious."
"Don't say anything."
"I didn't say anything."
"You thought it."
"Maybe."
Rose ran a hand over her face.
"This day can only get worse, and now I'm arguing logic with a ghost cook..."
The boy placed the omelette on a plate.
"I'm not a ghost."
He set the plate in front of her. The omelette was golden, accompanied by two slices of toast and a small pile of sautéed potatoes. The coffee arrived afterward.
"But I understand why you'd think that."
Rose looked at the food. Then she looked at him.
"If you disappear when I blink, I swear I'll leave."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Rose picked up the fork. After the first bite, her expression changed slightly.
"...Okay."
"Good?"
"Very good."
The boy leaned his elbows on the counter calmly.
"I'm glad to hear that."
Rose took a sip of coffee. The warmth went down her throat. For the first time since she had left the apartment, her mind stopped racing for a few seconds... enjoying the aroma of the place and the taste of freshly made food.
"Weren't you looking for someone?" the boy commented while washing some dishes. "You sounded very... impatient to find them... What's with the sudden change?"
Rose looked up from her plate. For a few seconds, she seemed to consider the question while cutting another piece of omelette.
"I guess hunger won," she finally replied.
The boy stopped rinsing a glass.
"That usually happens."
Rose chewed calmly. The soft sound of the fan spinning above their heads filled the silence for a moment.
"Besides," she added, "there's no point in searching on an empty stomach. I'd probably end up asking a lamppost if it had seen her..."
The boy nodded with a seriousness that made it unclear whether he was joking or not.
"A few minutes ago, you seemed to be going around in circles in the same place."
He rinsed a glass.
"Now it seems like you're simply here."
Rose looked at her coffee cup.
The steam was still rising slowly.
"I guess I needed to stop for a moment."
"That's reasonable," the boy replied.
Rose looked up.
"Reasonable?"
The boy rinsed a pan, cleaning the small bits of egg stuck to it, and replied.
"It's hard to find something when you don't know exactly what you're looking for."
Rose sighed.
"Do you always talk like this? Like you're some kind of... I don't know... Greek philosopher? Like everything's some kind of riddle?"
The boy smiled slightly.
"They're not riddles."
"Then what are they?"
He looked for a moment toward the restaurant window. Through the glass, you could see the street illuminated by morning light: cars passing, people walking hurriedly.
Then he looked back at her.
"Observations."
Rose looked at him skeptically.
"Very useful. They're as helpful as an umbrella at the bottom of the sea."
The boy shrugged slightly.
"Most important things aren't useful for anything practical."
Rose picked up another fried potato.
"That sounds like an excuse to say weird things."
"That could also be it," he replied.
Rose let out a small laugh.
"You know, if I weren't so tired, I'd think you're the type of person who spends all day reading philosophy in a café."
The boy leaned his elbows on the counter.
"And would that be a bad thing?"
"Depends," Rose replied. "Do you also quote books while cooking omelettes? Do you whisper to the pans about the meaning of life before cracking the eggs?"
The boy looked at the plate in front of her.
"It's not necessary."
"Why?"
The boy gently gestured toward the plate with his hand.
"Because the omelette is already there."
Rose frowned.
"I don't understand."
The boy spoke in his usual calm tone.
"We could describe it for hours. Talk about its shape, its texture, its temperature... debate whether the 'softness' you experience when chewing is a property of the egg or an interpretation of your nervous system..."
Rose looked at him with a mix of curiosity and exhaustion.
"Or we could stop theorizing and just eat it—that would make more sense."
Rose looked at him in silence. Then she looked down at the plate and took another bite, feeling the mix of cheese and salt in a strangely conscious way.
"...That was unnecessarily deep for breakfast."
The boy barely smiled.
"Actually, it wasn't."
Rose finished the last piece of omelette and set the fork down on the plate.
The restaurant remained just as quiet. The fan spun. The distant sound of traffic filtered through the door.
The boy let the glass drain and rested both hands on the counter.
"So," he said. "Who is it?"
Rose hesitated for a second.
She took the letter out of her pocket and placed it on the counter.
"Someone who..." she paused—"meant a lot."
The boy looked at the paper without touching it.
"That doesn't answer the question."
Rose frowned.
"Yes, it does."
"No," he replied calmly. "It only describes how you feel."
The boy read the phrase on the letter.
"Our special place."
Then he looked up.
"That's pretty specific."
Rose looked at him incredulously.
"No. It's the exact opposite of specific."
The boy tilted his head slightly.
"Depends on how you read it."
Rose sighed.
"Great. Back to philosophizing."
She took a sip of coffee.
"So..." said the boy. "Are you going to tell me?"
Rose sighed.
"Mica."
"A friend?"
Rose blushed slightly.
"Uhh... well... something like that."
The boy observed her for a few seconds longer than necessary.
"That doesn't sound very convincing."
Rose snorted.
"Do you always interrogate customers like this, or just the ones who pay for breakfast?"
"Only the ones who seem lost."
"Great," Rose murmured. "On top of being a cook, you're a therapist."
"Not exactly."
"Then what?"
The boy shrugged.
"I'm listening."
Rose rested her chin on her hand.
"She was someone I used to spend a lot of time with," she finally said.
"That still describes the past," he replied.
Rose frowned.
"Well, yeah. Because now she's not... or well... she was..."
The boy tilted his head slightly.
"But you're looking for her."
"Yes."
"So for you, she still exists."
Rose fell silent.
The fan spun slowly above their heads.
"I don't know if that makes sense," she mentioned.
"It makes as much sense as looking for something that's no longer there," he replied.
Rose looked up.
"Are you saying I'm wasting my time?"
"No."
"Then explain it."
The boy pointed at the letter again.
"The person who wrote this believes you can find her."
"Yes."
"That means she also believes you remember her."
Rose looked down at the paper, and her fingers touched the corner of the letter.
"I guess."
"But when you talk about her," he continued, "you do it as if she were a vague idea."
Rose let out a small nervous laugh.
"Well... it's been a while since.. well.. i thought about it..
"How long?"
Rose hesitated.
"I don't know exactly."
The boy raised an eyebrow.
"You don't know?"
"I've had some weird days lately."
"That doesn't explain forgetting someone important."
Rose looked at him with irritation.
"Hey, it's not that simple."
"Probably not."
The boy picked up the empty plate.
"But there's something curious."
"What?"
He looked at the plate as he lifted it.
"You remember perfectly the taste of the breakfast you just ate."
Rose blinked.
"So?"
"But you can't properly describe the person you're looking for."
Rose opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out.
The boy placed the plate in the sink.
"That's strange."
Rose looked at him with annoyance.
"Thanks for the free psychological analysis."
"It's not psychology."
"Then what is it?"
The boy turned slightly toward her.
"An observation."
Rose sighed.
"Another one."
Rose leaned her elbows on the counter, thinking.
The boy picked up a cloth and started wiping the counter.
Then he looked at the letter again.
"How long has it been since you last saw her?"
Rose stayed still.
The fan kept spinning above them.
"Three years," she finally said.
The boy looked up.
"That's quite a while... Did you fight?"
Rose turned the coffee cup between her fingers.
"Not exactly."
"Then what?"
"I don't remember."
Rose sighed.
She pointed at the phrase on the letter.
"Our special place."
"We had like ten of those... it could be anywhere."
The boy raised his eyebrows slightly.
"Like?"
"The 24-hour supermarket where we bought ice cream at midnight... the municipal library where we pretended to study... or that record shop where they played songs neither of us knew..."
The boy tilted his head.
"Not exactly."
"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"
"If it were just anywhere," he said calmly, "it wouldn't be special."
Rose stared at him.
"That doesn't help either."
"I'm just saying that maybe you don't need to look for a place, but to remember."
"Remember what?" Rose exclaimed.
"What made it special."
Rose frowned.
"That doesn't help."
"Maybe it does."
Rose rested her forehead in the palm of her hand.
"Look... we had lots of places. We walked a lot. Sometimes we went anywhere just because."
The boy gently shook his head.
"That sounds like many places."
"Exactly!"
"But the letter says our place."
Rose opened her mouth... and stopped.
The boy continued calmly:
"If something is special, it doesn't compete with other things."
The fan spun slowly above them.
Rose looked at the letter again.
"So you're saying that... there was only one."
"Probably."
Rose closed her eyes for a moment.
She tried to think.
The aquarium.
The harbor fair.
The arcade.
The night market.
Nothing fit.
Everything felt... flat.
As if she were reviewing photographs that weren't really hers.
She opened her eyes.
"I don't remember."
The boy observed her for a few seconds.
"Then remember something else."
"What?"
"The last time you saw her."
An uncomfortable sensation ran through her chest, like when a word is on the tip of your tongue but refuses to come out.
"I only remember... the sky."
The boy looked at her with more attention.
"The sky?"
Rose nodded slowly.
"Yes."
The boy pointed at the window.
"Then maybe you should start there."
Rose frowned.
"By looking up?"
The boy replied with absolute calm:
"The sky is indifferent—it has no reason to lie."
Rose took a second to understand.
Then she looked toward the restaurant door.
"Are you saying that the special place... has to do with the sky?"
The boy shrugged.
"The limits of the special place are the limits of the letter."
Rose slowly stood up from the stool.
"You know what..." she finally said. "I think I'm going to stop this conversation before you start explaining the dilemma of the toast..."
The boy raised an eyebrow.
"You think?"
"I don't doubt it," Rose replied.
She slid the stool back and stood up.
"And honestly, I'd rather not know how far that goes."
She took some coins out of her pocket and left them on the counter.
"Breakfast was really good."
The boy looked at the money.
"I'm glad to hear that."
Rose picked up the letter and put it back in her pocket.
Then she pointed her finger at him.
"But I'm warning you."
"Yes?"
"If I stay here five more minutes, I'm sure you'll end up giving me a speech about the nature of coffee."
The boy thought for a moment.
"Coffee is interesting."
Rose quickly raised her hand.
"No. No. Stop right there."
She approached the restaurant door.
"I don't need to know if espresso represents the fundamental structure of the universe or something like that."
The boy barely smiled.
"That would be a hard argument to sustain."
Rose opened the door.
The little bell jingled.
Before leaving, she looked over her shoulder.
"By the way..."
The boy watched her.
"You never said your name."
The boy tilted his head slightly.
"You didn't ask."
Rose looked at him for a few seconds.
Then she shook her head.
"Yeah... I think I'll keep it that way."
"Why?" he asked with genuine curiosity.
Rose made a small grimace.
"Because I have a feeling that if I ask, you'll end up giving me a twenty-minute sermon on what it really means 'to have a name.'"
The boy didn't respond immediately.
Rose sighed.
"Exactly. That face confirms my theory."
She opened the door a little more.
The daylight entered the restaurant.
"So... thanks for breakfast."
The boy replied calmly:
"You're welcome."
Rose stepped out into the street.
The little bell rang again.
Jingle.Jingle.Jingle