The mountain lodge rose from the forest like something out of another time—rough stone walls, wide verandas, chimneys puffing smoke into the crisp afternoon air. Inside, the air smelled of woodsmoke and brewing coffee.
"Separate rooms?" Camila asked the proprietor, a weathered man with kind eyes.
"Only if you want them," he replied with a knowing smile. "We have a suite with two bedrooms if you'd prefer."
Lívia flushed. "We just met."
"Your choice," he said simply.
Camila stepped closer to Lívia, lowering her voice. "What would you prefer? I don't mind either way."
"The suite," Lívia heard herself say. "If that's okay with you."
Dinner that night felt like a first date, though neither acknowledged it. They sat at a corner table, steam rising from their bowls of hearty soup.
"How long are you here?" Camila asked.
"Two weeks. You?"
"Same. Annual ritual."
Lívia raised an eyebrow. "You come here every year?"
"Reminds me there's more to life than work," Camila said, spooning soup with deliberate movements. "And you?"
"First time traveling solo. Graduation gift to myself." Lívia swirled her spoon. "That and... recent breakup."
Camila's gaze sharpened slightly. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was necessary." Lívia met her eyes. "Sometimes you have to lose yourself to find yourself."
A flicker of understanding passed between them—recognition of shared truth, though their stories differed.
After dinner, they sat on the veranda as night fell, wrapped in blankets against the mountain chill. The conversation flowed easier now—travel stories, childhood memories, why they'd both chosen this place.
"You're very young to be so lost," Camila observed, not unkindly.
"And you're oddly composed for someone whose healing," Lívia replied. They both fell silent, the weight of unspoken questions settling between them.