TRACING DREAMS

The train lurched forward with that particular rhythm only old carriages possess—a syncopated heartbeat of metal on rail that Samara had come to find oddly comforting during her fortnightly commutes.

She settled into her usual window seat.

Outside, the platform began its slow retreat as the 4:25 p.m. pulled away.

Samara watched the town peel itself back in layers—first the industrial grime of the rail yards, the station precinct with its car park and taxi rank, then the residential streets with their weatherboard houses and established gardens.

The town  gave away quickly to rural openness, the urban edge dissolving into the fertile plains.

Green. Everything was impossibly, intensively green—the kind of verdant landscape that only came from regular rain and rich volcanic soil, sprinkled with macrocarpa and poplar trees.

In the distance, the mountains rising like a jagged spine, their peaks sometimes shrouded in cloud, sometimes sharp against the sky. 

She’d made this two-hour journey seventeen times now, ever since taking the consultancy position that required her presence in Wellington every other Friday.

Her trip followed a pattern—work through emails or surrender to a book.

It was mechanical, predictable, and exactly what her life had become lately—scheduled actions designed to minimise the empty spaces where thoughts could intrude.

 

She didn’t want to think about the recent past—the disruptive events that had caught her completely off guard. Her job was a way to balance the seething cauldron of feelings they had left behind.

Her father’s death, her mum’s health—she was now exhausted, debilitated would be the right term, after five years of caring for him.

He would have turned seventy next month.

All the financial strain they had endured made it impossible for her to invest in herself. But the deepest wound was what had truly killed her mum’s spirit: losing their house. That place, full of memories and happy moments, where Samara had been raised. It was an idyllic childhood.

Her father’s gambling had left them with debts acquired before he fell ill. Her mother had negotiated with the creditors, arranging to pay in instalments.

Eventually, the house was sold to settle the bulk of the debt, and they ended up in a smaller place, a different neighbourhood.

Her mum was never the same again, yet she refused to leave the town.

It would have been easier to avoid this situation, but Samara couldn’t leave her—not now, when her mother needed care. Thanks to a kind neighbour who kept an eye on her, Samara was able to focus on her job and travel with some peace...

As if that weren’t enough, she had been dismissed by Bruce, like an object disposed of, no longer of interest.

The mere thought still hurt.

Better not dwell in the past. Focus on the present...

 

She opened her laptop and started reading and replying to emails, detaching herself from the hum of voices around her.

The carriage was unusually full today.

Maybe a major concert or a deciding match in the capital, which she was unaware of.

She kept herself absorbed for some time, just turned her eyes from the screen—-sensing the train slowing to a halt—letting them wander outside.

Levin Station. Busy.

Samara’s attention snapped back inside as she noticed a man hovering in the aisle beside her row, looking apologetically at her laptop bag.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his deep voice carrying a warmth that seemed at odds with the awkwardness of the request. ‘Do you mind if I sit here?’

She glanced quickly at the surroundings. There were a few other seats available, but for some reason he had chosen to sit next to her...

Samara looked back up, meeting eyes that were an unexpected shade of grey-blue, like storm clouds over water. He was perhaps older than her, in his thirties, with blond hair, wearing a rolled-up plain white shirt, a khaki leather messenger bag slung across his chest.

‘Oh, of course.’ She quickly moved her bag to the floor, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. ‘Sorry, I usually have this row to myself.’

‘Busy day, eh?’ he said, folding his tall frame into the seat with the careful movements of someone worried about taking too much space.

She nodded.

He smelled faintly of coffee, or something else—chocolate, perhaps—and definitely cedarwood. She liked his fragrance.

It was distracting. Samara reopened her laptop with more force than necessary, determined to return to her emails, her routine, her comfortable isolation.

But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

 

They’d barely reached the next station when his phone rang. Not the discreet buzz of a silenced mobile, but the full-throated ring of someone who’d forgotten to switch settings. He fumbled for it, apologising with his eyes as he answered.

‘Hello? Yes, this is... oh, Mrs. Clement, hello.’ His voice shifted into something more formal, professional. ‘I’m on the train now, but... yes, I did see your email. About the proofs? Mrs. Clement, I promise you, the colour will look different when it’s printed. The screen always—’ He paused, listening...

Samara could hear the tinny voice on the other end, agitated. ‘I understand completely. It’s your granddaughter’s wedding, it needs to be perfect. You’ll have it tomorrow, and if you still want changes, we have time.’ Another pause. ‘Yes, absolutely. I’ll do that the moment I get to my friend’s house. I’ll ask them to deliver it tomorrow, first thing. You have my word.’

So he was going to be at a friend’s house... Interesting... Was he married?

What did it matter? Why this intrusive thought?

He ended the call and let out a long breath, tipping his head back against the seat. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Occupational hazard?’ Samara found herself asking, though she hadn’t meant to engage.

‘You could say that.’ He turned slightly towards her, and she noticed he had the kind of smile that transformed his entire face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. ‘I run a small printshop,  it used to be my father’s, and some clients are... let’s say, picky.’ He winked, ‘But business is business... this one is in a bit of panic about three weeks before the big day.’

‘Printshop? Like, actual physical type and ink?’

‘The very same. I know, wildly anachronistic in the digital age. But there’s something about it... the texture, the impression on the paper. It’s tactile in a way that matters.’

She smiled. ‘I’m Samara, by the way. Since we’re apparently going to be neighbours for the next few hours.’

‘Daniel.’ He extended his hand, surprising her.

His handshake was warm, brief, and left her palm feeling oddly aware of itself.

‘Are you going to the capital?’ he asked, pulling out a sketchbook from his bag—not a laptop, she noted, but an actual paper sketchbook with a worn leather cover.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Do you live there?’

‘No. I live in Palmy. It’s work. Consulting. Very boring compared to a printshop.’

‘I doubt that. What kind of consulting?’

Somehow, inexplicably, Samara found herself telling him. About the architecture firm she worked for, how she helped them optimise their project management systems, make everything more efficient. She heard herself describing it and realised how lifeless it sounded, how far removed from the idealistic student she’d once been, who’d wanted to design spaces that made people feel something.

‘What happened?’ Daniel asked quietly, as if he could read the disappointment in her own voice. ‘To the architecture?’

Samara looked out the window. They were passing through fields of ryegrass and white clover against the grey sky. ‘Life, I suppose. Student loans. Family issues. I couldn’t maintain the stability to finish a degree.’

‘Ah.’ He didn’t offer platitudes or prying questions, just a small nod of understanding. ‘Well, for what it’s worth, project management is a kind of architecture too. You’re creating systems instead of buildings.’

‘That’s generous.’

‘It’s true. Structure is structure, whether it’s steel beams or workflow diagrams.’

He opened his sketchbook, and she glimpsed pages filled with elegant design mock-ups, notes in a neat, draughting hand. ‘Though I’ll admit, my version involves a lot more ink under the fingernails.’

The conversation drifted after that into easier territory. Daniel sketched while they talked—loose, flowing designs.

‘I like to sketch my ideas instead of using technology. A habit from my father. He was a special person. I admired him...’

There was grief in his voice.

‘How long since he...’

‘Passed away? Around two years.’

‘Oh, still recent. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘She died before Dad. One year before. I think it was the reason for my father’s death. He missed her so much...’ He paused. ‘He had a heart attack, you know.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘Anyway, both were getting on a bit when I was born. She was forty-five, he was fifty.’

‘Do you have siblings?’

‘No, I’m the only child. Just me now in this world, by myself. No contact with relatives...’

Samara felt a curiosity that might seem nosy, but at the same time she had the impression that he wanted to say more, just waiting for her to ask. When she didn’t, he became quiet for a while.

She found herself watching his hands as they moved across the page, sure and purposeful. He told her about his printshop, and his hobby—drawing people, especially faces, which he hoped could make some money from at some point.

‘Sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘Usually around 3 or 4 a.m., I wake up with a compulsion to create portraits that somehow remain engraved in my mind. Sometimes, it’s just a simple detail: the shape of a face, a mouth, a nose, or even something more specific, like exotic eyes...’

He shook his head. ‘In those moments, the pen in my hand, the ink on the paper, they have a connection, a will of their own that brings the lines from my mind.’

‘It sounds poetic.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘I do...’

‘It’s as if it were one of the printing machines working through me...’

Samara frowned.

‘You didn’t like the comparison?’

‘I don’t know. It sounds weird...’

He grinned. ‘I agree.’

He had a relaxed way of talking that put her at ease, as if they had known each other for a long time. When was the last time she had felt this way with a man?

With Bruce, their conversations had been superficial; he had never fully opened up to her during the three years they were together. But here, in just a few minutes, he was telling her things one wouldn’t normally share with a stranger.

Nothing truly compromising though.

‘What about you?’

Samara opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. She felt a flush of frustration. What could she say about herself?

Compared to his vivid self-portrait, her own life sounded unbearably boring.

As if he had noticed her hesitation, he didn’t insist. Instead, he produced a small pack from his bag.

‘My addiction. It soothes my mind. Would you like some?’

Her earlier guess was right. That smell... Chocolate...

She was going to refuse, but decided to accept. The last time she’d eaten had been at lunch. A small piece of chocolate wouldn’t spoil her appetite; she could still have dinner after arriving at the hotel.

 

Memories came unbidden. It was incredible how smells had the power to conjure them. She was taken back to her childhood, when her father would bring chocolate fish or pebbles, despite her mother’s complaints. ‘You shouldn’t!’ her mother would scold, and her father would give her a knowing smile and retort, ‘She’s a good girl.’

Her mum would let out a deep sigh of annoyance.

The air in the carriage smelled of something sweet. 

Someone sitting behind smelled of tobacco. 

Her father returned to her mind. He would smoke in the winter garden, where the top parts of the windows were propped open on metal supports...

Outside raining...

 

Daniel’s fragrance pulled her back to the present—woody, masculine, but soft...

Without realising it, Samara found herself talking about things she rarely discussed; that she was born after many attempts of pregnancy.

They used to say she had been a miracle. About her father’s slow decline from Alzheimer’s, her mum’s caring for him, her own guilt at being relieved when he finally passed. Her mum’s decline after all the stress.

She didn’t mention her father’s addiction, nor the financial trouble he had brought upon them.

‘That’s not wrong, you know,’ Daniel said. ‘Grief and relief can coexist. Love isn’t simple. It requires us to give up certain things in order to adjust to the facts, accept them, and learn from them...’

‘It should be simpler,’ Samara said. ‘Shouldn’t it?’

‘Maybe. But life itself is complex. A tangle of surprises. That’s what makes it magnificent, despite everything...’

He seemed so understanding, like an ancient wise man, who would have answers to the trivial questions, to the human doubts and emotional conflicts.

His voice matched that impression—deep, with a slow, soft cadence. It was like a song playing on the radio, that one would listen to intently, hanging on every word, even if not grasping its full meaning...

She saw so many qualities in him that she felt disqualified herself.

‘We have things in common,’ he said.

‘Do we?’

‘Look.’ He began counting on his fingers. ‘Our mothers had us when they were over forty. Our fathers are gone. We are only children. Living in our childhood homes, and we are both single.’ He spoke the last sentence with a pointed seriousness.

It took her a second to spot the trick.

‘Wait... we didn’t talk about our marital status.’

‘We didn’t. So?’ His eyes bore into hers.

Flushed by his forwardness, she replied, ‘I’m single, like you…’

‘See? I was right.’

He offered her a genuine smile, and something churned within her...

 

They fell into a rhythm after that. Sometimes talking, sometimes silent.

A different quality of silence than Samara usually experienced on these journeys.

It was shared, somehow. Companionable.

Daniel worked on his sketch. Samara abandoned her laptop in favour of watching the scenery slide past, occasionally commenting on a particularly beautiful stretch of countryside or an interesting building.

‘There,’ she said as they passed a small, beautifully preserved railway station.

‘See the ironwork on the canopy? That’s what I mean about the attention to detail in that period. Every functional element is aesthetic.’

Daniel leaned across to look, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him.

‘You’re an architect after all,’ he said softly. ‘You just let it aside for a while.’

The observation landed somewhere deep in her chest.

Teasing her like a regret. Perhaps, she had chosen the wrong path.

She did her job for the money, not for the pleasure, but she wouldn’t admit it to him, not even to her own ears.

She imagined later, when alone in the hotel room, waiting for the morning to come to go to the office, she would look herself in the mirror and let out loudly. ‘You’ve chosen wrong.’ But another part of her would say, ‘All the little money could pay for at that time...’

She would arrive to her meeting, smiling, and no one would see the cracks beneath. Just a professional person, composed and capable until Friday afternoon, when she would return home.

This pattern had been repeated for years...

After a moment of quiet, he turned to her.

‘Excuse me if I take a little snooze. It’s a habit on long trips.’

‘That could be dangerous…’

‘I live dangerously. It’s the artistic temperament.’

‘I was talking about the person beside you…’

‘Are you referring to yourself?’

‘Very funny. I meant you could get robbed.’

‘I know. But if I do nap, there’s no danger with you here, is there?’ He offered a brief grin, and she returned it.

‘I suppose not.’

‘Then again, I probably won’t even sleep, since a very interesting person beside me will keep me awake…’

Perhaps, a clichéd remark, yet she turned red, flattered, a flush of pleasure spreading over her.

This time, when his eyes met hers, she felt the look inside her.

There was a shift in the air between them. Something acknowledged but not spoken. Samara felt it like a change in atmospheric pressure—that electric sense before a storm.

When was the last time she had felt anything like this? Had she ever?

Not that she could recall, at least not with the small handful of boyfriends she’d had. Certainly, never with Bruce, especially at that first meeting. He had been bored at the wedding reception—the last of her only three friends to get married.

She was happy for her friend yet privately frustrated for herself.

All of them were following their paths, while she felt apart, astray.

No man had ever taken her seriously. What was wrong with her?

That was when Bruce had appeared—not a direct guest, but a friend of a friend of the groom.

Black hair slicked back with gel, a moustache, a glass perpetually in hand, a smile flashing perfect teeth. His russet eyes held a superficial amusement, entirely devoid of any genuine spark.

Had she recognised them for what they were—the eyes of a predator—-she would never have allowed his flirtation, accepted his advances, agreed to meet again and again, or become involved. Bruce was, without question, the biggest mistake of her life, and she was only twenty-seven. How many more would she make?

 

Back then, everything had happened as if on a grim production line: her father’s illness, his death, her mother’s consuming grief and decline. Then, the new house that would never feel like home—devoid of memories, belonging, or history. It felt like usurping someone else’s faded legacy.

The crowning blow was Bruce’s manipulation, which she realised far too late. He had systematically undermined her confidence. She’d become unproductive at work, prone to errors and reticence, her mind poisoned by his constant comparisons to his own ‘striving’ career.

Their final conversation—more accurately, their final argument—confirmed what she already knew: he would never be a faithful or supportive partner.

‘You cling to that job, even though it’s not what you dreamed of... I think you could do something better.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You could forget this silly idea of working outside.’

‘What’s wrong with my work?’

‘You could learn to be a proper wife… how to cook, how to—’

‘Stop! I know your real intentions.’

He didn’t deny it. ‘I want a wife who’ll look after me. Like my mother looks after my father.’

‘Oh, I see. So, you want me to abandon my career to be a… devoted housekeeper? No offence to your mother or anyone who chooses that life, but that’s not me. I can manage a home, I can cook, but my career is my priority—not looking after a grown man.’

‘So that’s it, then?’

‘What?’

‘All these years we’ve been together, I kept hoping you’d change your mind.’

‘No. You ridiculed me, belittled me, filled my head with your sarcasm…’

‘I’ve wasted my time with you.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way. But you’ve wasted mine, too.’

It was over.

Eight months ago.

 

She’d had to absorb that blow entirely alone, with no one to talk to. Her close friends were busy in their own married lives.

Her mum had never been one for personal conversations—not since Samara started growing up. Any problem or concern was met with the same refrain: ‘You have to learn how to deal with things by yourself. Life is not easy. It’s full of disappointments to serve as experiences to improve you as a human being.’

She had refused to speak about her own childhood, her parents, how she met her father, if she had been happy with him. Samara assumed she must have been, as her old motto had always been, ‘Money is not everything, if you have a man who makes you happy...’

However, after her father’s death, her mother had done nothing but grumble about the ruin he’d left them in.

Lately, Samara had been supporting herself with small moments that made her feel alive, even if they weren’t plenty. They were like roots to the edge of a precipice, to grasp at in a desperate attempt to not fall into the abyss of insanity.

 

But this stranger, Daniel, on the other hand was a kind of person with whom she never had crossed paths before, even though she’d known him for barely an hour.

He carried a different energy. Something genuine. Kind. Gentle...

It permeated his voice, his eyes...

‘Samara, are you alright?’

She met his blue gaze, a sudden lethargy weighing on her.

‘I was just… lost in my thoughts.’

‘You seem far away. Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No. It’s nothing important. Just… some old memories.’

‘Forgive me for saying so, but I have a sense you’ve had a difficult past.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Earlier, when I was walking down the aisle, I saw you bent over your laptop. You caught my attention, and not just because you’re beautiful.’

‘Hmm. And that’s not a made-up reason for why you sat next to me?’

‘No. It’s true. There was something about you… a sadness. It felt familiar. Does that make any sense?’

Samara scrutinised him. ‘Perhaps… Why did it feel familiar to you?’

‘I never overcame my mum and dad's death. I was twenty-six when she passed away, and my father followed one year later...’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ he offered a sad smile.

‘They were very special to you...’

‘Yeah, they were...’

‘It’s weird saying that, but I’m envious of you...’

‘Why? Weren’t your parents good to you?’

‘In some ways, they were... but even though they referred to me as a miracle, I always had the impression...’ She squinted at him. ‘Do you know when you really want something, and after getting it, after some time, it doesn’t have the same appeal anymore?’

‘What are you comparing yourself to? An object?’

‘Not really. It could be anything. What I’m trying to say is that, despite the fact they treated me well, it felt like if they could turn back the clock, they would choose not to have me.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘I don’t know. The fact my mum never wanted to talk about their past... I seemed like something was off... I still feel it. She’s not going to tell me what it is. Maybe it’s just my mind tricking me...’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘That’s fine... Nothing for you to worry about...’

He opened his sketchbook again, as if to avoid the unsettling conversation.

Samara changed the subject.

‘So, you’re single. By choice or—’

He interrupted her. ‘The right person hasn’t come along... but...’ he sighed.

‘But?’

‘Nothing...’

His eyes lingered on her, a wry smile on his face.

Outside, the view opened up to bigger skies and rolling hills.

Daniel showed her his sketchbook, filled with design ideas, and photo album of what he called his ‘experiments.’

Samara could see he was immensely talented—not just from his incredibly realistic portraits and scenes with people, but also his delicate watercolour landscapes and loose, evocative sketches.

‘They’re amazing,’ she voiced a breathy ‘wow’.

‘Thank you.’ He gave her a diffident grin. ‘I’m going to Wellington to meet a friend. He knows someone whose parents own an art gallery.’

‘And he’s going to introduce you to them?’

‘That’s the idea… Perhaps, if I’m lucky, I’ll have my work on show there.’

‘I’m pretty sure it’ll happen. You could make a fortune,’ she teased.

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’d just be glad if people appreciated my art. My friend thinks I have a chance.’

‘Of course you do. You could become famous.’

‘Ha, I wish…’

‘Your wish is granted.’

‘By whom?’

‘The Universe. You don’t believe it?’

‘I don’t know. That sounds like mysticism.’

‘I call it reality.’

‘Has the Universe granted you anything?’

‘No, but I’m still waiting...’

‘Would you tell me what for?’

‘Better not to,’ she shrugged.

 

A nagging sense of fraud crawled over her. What she had dreamed of, wished for, never happened. Did she still really have hope? Or was she trying to lie to herself?

‘I’d like to draw you.’ His voice broke through her thoughts.

‘You have a remarkable face.’

‘Really? Do you think so?’

He gave a slight shake of his head, his eyes scrutinising her features. ‘It’s not a matter of thinking. It’s a fact.’

‘I… I don't think I’d feel comfortable sitting still to be drawn.’

‘It wouldn’t be necessary. Your face is unforgettable. I already have the lines etched in my mind.’

He held her gaze longer than a casual glance usually allowed.

Again, that electric undercurrent throbbed through her veins.

She blushed...

There was an unreadable flicker in his eyes, attractive for its mystery.

It was funny to think that way, as she was used to people saying her mink brown eyes were mysterious...

He was handsome, at least for her taste. Charming. Cute, if the word could apply to a grown man. Slim, pale complexion, someone not used to sunbathing, for sure.

What a shame as she loved to spend some time in the morning appreciating the sunshine, reinforcing her olive tone.

She herself was called many times pretty...

 

The conversation deepened as the kilometres accumulated.

Daniel told her his mother had been a calligrapher, teaching him to love letters and words and the shapes they made. She and his father had worked together, and they instilled in him a passion for what they did.

Their legacy to him was so profound that he barely thought of doing anything else. While his schoolmates dreamed of being doctors, police officers, or firemen, he knew exactly what he would do for a job—what he did now. 

So, while the others were dreaming about the future, he was learning how to trace dreams onto paper.

Samara listened, a look of recognition touched by a deep, familiar ache crossing her face. She glanced down at her own hands, which now only drew up reports.

‘You trace dreams,’ she said quietly. ‘Once, I wanted to trace them, too. To create forms from steel, wood, concrete... To build places where dreams would awaken...’

She met his gaze, finding understanding there.

‘Another thing we have in common,’ he said.

A silent empathy hung between them, so natural that when his hand brushed against hers on her lap, she didn’t pull away. She let his fingers press gently against her own.

The touch was brief. There was a connection. Undeniable.

‘You have beautiful hands,’ he murmured.

She looked down at them—delicate as she had been told, her nails a pale colour, no rings, and then to his, resting now on his legs—long fingers, clean nails.

‘Thanks,’ she replied.

Afterwards, they talked about trivial things. Small intimacies, yet revealing enough to sketch the outlines of their personalities and habits.

She confessed she liked to sprawl on her bed some nights and watch romantic movies, the kind they call ‘sappy films’. She would root for the heroine and imagine herself in the role. He would fall sleep on the lounge couch, without having finished watching the action film, imagine.

When she was sad, ice cream could lift her spirits. For him, of course, chocolate.

She loved old cotton t-shirts, comfortable for sleeping, especially on warm nights, as she hated air conditioning. She’d learned that it aged you faster.

‘But you’re too young to worry about that.’

‘Nothing better than prevention,’ she retorted.

He slept in his underwear and didn’t mind air conditioning.

She’d kept a diary since she was ten or eleven. Sometimes she visited it to recall forgotten things, though memories like her first boyfriend, first kiss, and first broken heart were unforgettable—not to mention her first time, though she kept that to herself...

He never considered the idea of writing anything.

‘Diaries are for girls, aren’t they?’

‘Don’t be sexist.’

‘I’m teasing you...’

As a child, she’d wanted to be a top model, but nature hadn’t given her the height—one metre sixty five was too short for that. Daniel, in contrast, was one point eight.

‘I don’t like tall women,’ he remarked.

‘Why not?’

‘If they wear heels, they shouldn’t be taller than me.’

‘Hmmm...’

‘Petite women are more graceful,’ he winked.

She laughed, her eyes caught the shadow of his five o’clock stubble.

 

They discovered a shared love for intricate stories that explored the raw edges of human feeling—the messy, glorious complexity of existence itself. Both preferred plots full of surprises and twists, mirroring the unpredictability of life where you never know what’s waiting around the corner.

Their tastes in music revealed more layers. He was passionate about vinyl records, citing artists that made her realise he was a secret romantic, just like her. 

She loved the pulsing synth of eighties beats for dancing and the smoky, improvisational flow of jazz. Live jazz.

They mentioned places they’d been and places they dreamed of going.

Daniel liked to explore high places—the bite of cold air, a secluded cabin in the mountains. Remote spots where it was just him and the silence of nature.

Samara loved the sea, the wind in her hair, the sun warming her skin. A simple cabin where she could fall asleep to the sound of the waves.

‘A private island,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve looked at a thousand photos. All different kinds...’

‘You should go,’ he said.

‘I wish I had the money...’

He drew a quick, graceless line that was nearly a smile, a gesture she mirrored with one of her own.

 

Daniel’s phone rang again—-Mrs. Clement, with new concerns about the spacing of the text. He listened patiently, then explained something about kerning and leading in a calm, measured tone. When the call ended, he looked apologetic.

‘You’re very patient with her,’ Samara observed.

‘She’s trusting me with one of the most important days of her granddaughter’s life. The least I can do is be patient. Besides, she reminds me of my mum. That same fierce attention to getting things exactly right.’

‘Perfectionism?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Are you a perfectionist?’

‘Perhaps... I’ve tried not to be.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s stressful. You waste time with silly things sometimes. I realised, after my dad passed away, that time flies. Life goes by in the blink of an eye,’ he made a vague gesture towards the window and the landscape blurring past. ‘I’m thirty-four, and I was eighteen not long ago. I remember longing to be an adult. What an illusion that was...’

‘You’re right. Life is too short. At least for us to reach all our dreams. What do you expect from life, Daniel?

She had called him by his name for the first time, and the sound of it felt strange in her mouth, like a flavour you have never tasted before...

‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘I suppose it’s about being wise enough to make the right choices, even if mistakes are inevitable. On the other hand, you learn from them. After all, everything is a consequence of our actions, or of what we believe.’

‘I like your way of thinking. Your philosophy.’

‘Is it philosophy?’

‘Kind of... isn't it?’

‘If you say so... so be it,’ he chuckled. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ve never stopped to think about it deeply, but come to think of it, what you said makes perfect sense. In a way, it resonates with what I expect from life.’

‘And what do you expect from life?’

Samara hesitated, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

‘At the moment... just to survive...’

‘Surviving the past?’

She seemed taken aback.

‘You told me earlier about it.’

‘Oh... I did.’

‘But what about the future?’ he insisted gently. ‘Money, love...’

She felt his gaze, which made her stumble over her words. She chose the safer option.

‘Money is welcome, but I don’t dream of being a billionaire. I think too much money doesn't bring happiness. Just enough to live well is enough...’

‘I agree. Great wealth can be a trap. You live in constant fear of losing it and never truly live. I’m pretty sure of that.’

‘Do you know any billionaires?’

‘No. My circle is one big step below that. Some are financially quite well off.’

‘Are you?’

He grinned. ‘Not really. Is that a defect?’

He’s probing me, she thought. Her response was mellow. ‘If you’re implying I’m looking for a rich man, the answer is no.’

Their eyes locked again. A long, silent moment stretched out, taut and waiting...

 

The view seemed to pass in slow motion. On one side, the sea stretched below, the lingering twilight still revealing the indigo depth of its waters.

Evening welcomed them.

The scene was changing, greenery and water giving way to roads and houses.

Samara felt a pang of panic rise in her chest. The journey was ending. A longing to travel forever, with no destination. Their physical proximity could turn into something more than a slight touch.

She wondered what his lips would taste like.

He perceived her unease and seemed to share the same thought. ‘Can I have your number?’

‘Sure.’ The reply came more eagerly than she’d intended, revealing a loophole in her composure. Her voice trembled slightly as he pressed the digits into his phone.

As if the world itself had decided to intervene, the train now slowed, as if pausing to let them take in the view one last time, before it plunged into the darkness of the tunnel.

As the train went through the darkness, Daniel’s hand found hers.

For a moment, she associated the tunnel’s darkness with the limbo she in which she had been living for several months.

His subtle grip, a kind of reassurance that everything would be fine.

Suddenly, the entire city was laid out in the valley amongst the mountains, its lights and forms just beginning to shimmer.

It was as if she were seeing it for the first time or finally realising what had always been there.

After a few minutes, the train glided silently into the concourse of the station.

The immediate feeling of being delivered into the bustling heart of the capital.

Usually, Samara wouldn’t have minded the abrupt transition, but today a different feeling settled over her.

They left the carriage and walked towards the main building.

The station’s great hall unfolded before them, its lights like a new hope, freshly born.

Outside, she stopped and pointed to the terracotta-hued façade.

‘I’ve always admired this kind of architecture.’

‘It’s beautiful. What’s this style?’

‘Neo-Classical with a touch of Art Deco.’

‘The columns are magnificent. So tall.’

‘Doric. About thirteen metres.’

‘Wow.’

‘I love this grandeur from the old days. It’s so distinct from modern designs with their boring straight lines of metal and glass.’

‘If you were to design a project, would it be inspired by something like this?’

‘Absolutely. At least in its textures and volumes.’

‘I can see you’d be a nostalgic professional.’

‘Hmm. That makes me sound like I’m from the last century.’

He laughed. ‘You look much too young for that. What’s your secret?’

She tapped his arm. ‘I can’t tell you that, mister.’

‘Oh, no. Now you’re calling me an old man.’

‘You don’t look that old...’

‘My work keeps me young.’

‘I’m happy for you.’

‘I can hear a hint of sadness there. You’re not happy with what you do, are you?’

‘More or less...’

‘You still have time to change that...’

‘Maybe I have time, but for the time being, I don’t have the money.’

‘Wasn’t it you who told me that the Universe can grant wishes?’

Samara frowned. ‘I said that didn’t I...’

‘So, everything is possible...’

‘You’re right, Mr. Happy Man.’

‘Are you teasing me, Uncertain Lady.’

‘Uncertain Lady?’

‘Yeah. Someone with doubts about the future.’

‘It seems you know me better than I know myself,’ she spoke with a note of dismay in her tone.

He understood. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You’re not. It’s just... unfortunately, it’s true.

Daniel stroked her back—a gentle, steadying contact. A sense of warm comfort spilled through her. She had been lacking affection yet felt embarrassed that he might notice it.

‘I have to go.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To the hotel.’

‘Do you need a taxi?’

‘No. It’s close. Only ten minutes’ walk.’

‘I can accompany you.’

‘You don’t need to...’

‘I insist.’

‘Okay. Thank you. What about you? Where are you staying?’

‘My friend’s house.’

‘Is it far from here?’

‘No. About the same distance as your hotel.’

 

They started walking into the calming evening.

The city not living up to its reputation for being temperamental. Sometimes it could turn into a passionate, buffeting gale dragging pedestrians sideways and turning umbrellas inside out, rendering them useless.

They ambled, neither of them wanting to say goodbye, even though there were unspoken signs they would see each other again. For now, they simply wanted to enjoy each other's company.

They stopped in front of shop windows, admiring items on display, no matter how silly—a garish outfit, a pair of impractical shoes neither would ever buy, or simply watching the Thursday evening hustle and bustle spilling from bars and restaurants.

The city pulsed around them.

Once in front of the hotel, Samara broke the instant of indecision.

‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Daniel. I hope everything goes well with the gallery owners. When do you see them?’

‘Tomorrow, around eleven.’

‘You’ll be fine.’

He drew a grin. ‘So be it.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘What are you going to do tonight?’

‘I’m going to rest for tomorrow morning, but first I have some work to finish.’

Disappointment shadowed his face. She would have been pleased to go somewhere with him, but she really needed to review her report.

With their conversation on the trip, she still hadn’t replied to some emails.

She always became anxious before seeing her bosses. They were straightforward, with no half-measures; they either liked your work or they didn’t, and she needed to be sure she’d done a good job.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Have a nice evening.’

‘You, too.’

He surprised her by stepping closer and stealing a kiss on her cheek. Actually, a bit lower. By a whisker, it could have been her mouth.

She moved to the hotel entrance, and before entering, she looked back.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned around. He smiled and waved.

She waved back, her face flushing like a child caught in mischief.

 

The night passed with dreams she hadn’t had in a long time.

Lately events, which permeated her mind constantly, had stripped away any perspective of brightness, any illusion.

She had asked herself many times when she would have a reason to believe in things she had once thought of as granted.

Being a good person meant you deserved a good outcome, right? No. That was no guarantee. Life, or fate, didn’t care who you were or what you had done.

It didn’t judge who deserved reward and who did not. So many outcomes were unfair.

It was sad to think she had been happy in her younger days.

Back then, there was innocence, faith in people, a little self-love.

All these things had blotched like a stain on a fabric she didn’t know if she could ever clean.

Her father had been her balance, until his mind decided to escape reality.

Her mother was one person, when he was alive and lucid.

During his ailment, she became another, as if her true self had been masked for so many years and had finally come to light.

Even though she took care of her husband, she would complain, saying things Samara didn’t understand—as if her father deserved what he was going through.

Worst of all, Samara would never know what had happened between them, what her mother would never forgive.

On the other hand, it poisoned her; she became ill. Samara didn’t mind taking care of her, spending the money she could have used for her studies, enduring the indifference and the coldness.

After all, she was her mother, despite everything.

Then there was Bruce, with his sexism, chauvinism, and arrogance. He had been the last straw. It had even made her wonder if all men were like that.

Maybe not. Her friends seemed to be happy with their husbands. At least, they never complained about anything on the rare occasions they spoke, mostly by phone. If anything was wrong, they would say something. Wouldn’t they?

Probably...?

Or did they say nothing because they thought she belonged to another species—the one with no luck finding a husband?

She was simply trying to survive the blow, like a hermit crab—its body so feeble, seeking refuge in a discarded snail shell until it calcified enough to build a new carapace. In her case, she was trying to strengthen her soul...

 

Daniel, on the other hand, was a different occurrence altogether. Someone who, somehow, stirred all of this up inside her. She didn’t want to create false expectations, but something told her that meeting him was not by chance.

Her intuition, maybe. It was not possible that she was wrong, that she was just imagining things. She had seen it in his eyes...

Her phone rang.

Before running to the bedroom to grab it from the bedside table, she contemplated her face in the bathroom mirror. It was radiant, even with just a light touch of mascara and a dab of lipstick. She smiled to herself.

On the screen, a familiar number. From the office...

 

With the phone in his hand, sitting on the bed in his underwear, Daniel oscillated between going down for breakfast or calling Samara. 

Or, at least, sending a message?

Had she woken up yet?

There was a strong desire to hear her luscious voice.

He recalled touching her hand in the tunnel. The darkness...

The gesture had been instinctive, yet it felt right. She had seemed in need of protection.

Could it be that she’d thought it audacious? 

Anyway, she hadn’t pulled away...

There was something in his head he couldn’t explain. He had never felt anything like this. Of all the women who had passed through his life—not many—none of them had awakened anything similar. 

It was a force pulling him towards her.

He remembered walking through the train carriage, seeing her settled alone, indifferent to her surroundings, focused on her laptop screen.

Then, their conversation. She had opened up like a flower, offering its beauty and fragrance. Fragile but resilient... 

That was his impression of her.

At some point, a certainty had solidified in his mind: she was someone he had been waiting for his entire life. He didn’t need to be older to be sure of that...

What he had felt wasn’t a mere attraction, but connection.

How hard it had been to say goodbye to her last night. To contain himself when he kissed her on the cheek, when what he really wanted was to kiss her on the lips.

How would she have reacted? Would she have returned the kiss?

He was almost sure she would have. But it was better to take it easy. No eagerness.

Samara was a special woman—smart, guileless.

Someone who had been hurt, and was probably still afraid to trust anyone again...

 

The day stretched out—elastic and languid. One minute felt like ten. Ten minutes felt like an hour.

In the mid-afternoon, Samara was navigating through folders, wrapping up additional data her boss had required for the report.

Her mind, however, was a split screen. One half tracked file paths; the other replayed the pressure of Daniel’s hand over hers in the tunnel’s darkness, the soft goodbye kiss on her cheek that had felt like a promise...

She was numbed with these involuntary thoughts, and feelings, afraid of them, yet a part of her craved it all desperately.

The sensation was like treading a muddy terrain, fearing to sink...

Her phone chimed. A message, from an unknown number.

With a flutter of expectation, she opened it. It was him...

Hi, Samara. Can I call you? Let me know when you’re free. Daniel

Her answer was immediate: In fifteen minutes.

 

She organised the papers into the folder, making sure everything was in order. Her hands trembled a bit; she felt nervous, but in a good way.

She dashed to the office kitchen, fixed some tea, and was sitting at the small table, glancing through the window at the glassy building opposite, distracting herself with the modern lines she hated, when he called.

‘Samara?’ His voice was different—lighter, with a current of energy beneath it. ‘I have news.’

‘Yeah?’

‘The meeting... they liked my work. I have an offer to exhibit.’

‘Daniel, that’s… that’s wonderful.’ A genuine smile touched her lips. ‘I’m so happy for you.’

‘Thank you. Listen, I… I want to celebrate. With you. What about dinner tonight?’

‘I’d love to, but I’m going back home this evening.’

‘I know, but what if you to stay one more night?’

‘If I stay, I can only go back on Monday afternoon. The trains don’t run on weekends.’

‘That’s not a problem. I have a car.’

‘Oh, really? But you came by train...’

‘Last time I was here my car broke down. I left it and now it’s fixed. So, what do you say? I can take you home tomorrow, or if you like, we can stay the weekend.’

‘Not the weekend, sorry.’

‘Tonight, then? I’ll cover your room.’

The warmth of the proposal collided instantly with the flat reality—she would have to call home to let her mum and the neighbour know about her staying longer in the capital. Not that she hadn’t done that before. On some occasions she had to extend her stay for work. Nonetheless, this time, she would have to lie.

But should she feel guilty? About what?

It wouldn’t be a real lie that would harm anyone’s life. Just a distortion of the truth.

On second thought, a break in her routine would be appreciated. She was in need.

Why not? Furthermore, it was Daniel. The man she couldn’t get out of her mind.

‘Okay. I’m in.’

‘Really? Are you sure?’

‘I am... Where can we meet? What time?’

‘I can come to your hotel... around seven?’

‘Fantastic. I’ll come down. Meet me in the lobby.’

‘Fine. I’ll be there.’

If it had been a video call, he might not have been so effusive, raising a clenched fist in a private, triumphant gesture like someone who had achieved something monumental.

He was happy—so happy he almost bounced down the street outside the gallery while walking to his car.

Later, as Samara descended the staircase, she was greeted with a smile. Daniel stood up from an armchair in the lobby. His eyes were held on her as she approached.

She felt self-conscious.

‘You look stunning,’ he said.

She was flattered, yet not totally convinced. She was wearing a sheath dress with sleeves, a V-neck, a belted waist, and the same mid-heel stilettos she wore to work.

Nothing special, just an extra piece of clothing she usually brought in case she needed to overstay. Work clothes.

Perhaps it was the mustard scarf thrown over her shoulder to deal with the early autumn chill, the more elaborate make-up, or the hair she had managed to wash—nearly dry—and fasten at the sides with clips. Something had an effect.

A good one, judging by Daniel’s still-gaping expression.

‘You look nice yourself,’ she said, cutting through his obvious astonishment.

He wore dark trousers and a light jacket over an ivory shirt—the attire of a casual evening out.

‘Thanks,’ he replied, his hand finding her shoulder, a bit clumsily, as he guided her out. On the street, he offered his arm.

‘My friend recommended a bistro near here. Perhaps you know it?’

‘Not really. I’m not used to going out to eat when I’m here. Usually, I just order room service.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Daniel, about paying for my stay... you really don’t need to...’

‘Of course I do. It’s my treat.’

‘I feel...  a bit embarrassed...’

‘Please, don’t be.’

‘Okay... thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’

After a short walk, they arrived at a historical yellow cottage, with a black fence, shrubs out front. A few steps led to a tiny porch, and as they went through the door, it was like stepping into someone’s private home.

The atmosphere was intimate and dimly lit. Their table for two stood against a moss-green wall. There were no lights overhead, only the soft glow of a floor lamp in the corner.

Amidst food, dessert, wine, the conversation flowed. Daniel talked about his plans for the next few months until the exhibition. The selection of his works, some would be framed. He still didn’t believe that was happening.

‘I’m not surprised they liked it.’

‘Yeah, the gallery owners liked it, but I don’t know about the public.’

I’m pretty sure they know very well what is good to please the public.’

‘I’m a bit scared.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s one thing to make some art as a hobby in the comfort of your home. Another thing to show it off, for people’s judgment. I’m not entirely sure about it.’

‘Everything will be alright.’

‘Perhaps. It’s strange how I feel... vulnerable, I think is the word...’

‘Vulnerable?’

‘Yeah. I’d like to have my parents with me... to give me support, you know?’

‘I think so... but you have your friend...’

‘Sure, but it’s not the same. I’m talking about family. Or someone... very close.’

‘A girlfriend, wife?’

Daniel gazed at her, weighing his answer. ‘It was good meeting you. I’m glad you accepted my offer to stay longer. I thought of you when they told me about exhibiting my work... I mean, your words...’

‘That your art is amazing?’

‘That too... but you said that I traced dreams...’

‘It’s true. Dreams which become reality...’

The relaxed atmosphere, the low background music, the soft glow of the lamp—all the elements seemed to conspire to favour his confession.

It hung between them, more intimate than the flavour of the wine or the subtle languor it caused; more real than the empty plates, or than the brush of his fingers finding her forearm...

 

He returned with her to the hotel. The weather was crisp, pleasant, the night air a gentle contrast to the bistro’s warm closeness.

A quiet settled between them. Their footsteps were a synchronised rhythm that felt more intimate than conversation.

Daniel walked close enough to Samara, that their bodies almost brushed.

His hands in his pockets... Her scarf draped loosely over her shoulders, fluttering slightly in the breeze like a wing.

She was acutely aware of the space between them, a space that seemed to hum with possibility.

She replayed the touch of his fingers on her forearm, the look in his eyes when he’d said, I thought of you...

It didn’t take long before they stood beneath the hotel’s awning.

‘Thank you for tonight, Samara. Truly.’ He said, turning to face her.

‘Thank you for the invitation... and congratulations again...’

They looked at each other, at an impasse, like actors who had forgotten their lines and did not know how to proceed.

Unasked questions hovered in the air: What happens now?

An invitation for coffee or whatever?

A goodnight kiss that wasn’t just a brush on her cheek?

Then, Samara heard her own voice, steady—but not calm—and clear, cutting through the forgotten script.

‘Would you like to come up for a nightcap? The room service wine is... perfectly adequate...’

The surprise that flickered in his eyes was instantly replaced by an intense sparkle. Perhaps, he hadn’t expected this, yet it appeared appropriate.

‘I’d like that very much...’ His voice, a pitch deeper.

On the lift ride, Samara was aware of every detail: the thrum of the machinery, the scent of his cologne, the way he stood close, but not touching her. Her own boldness echoed in her ears. What are you doing?

Inside her room, she moved to the minibar, grabbing a bottle of wine—the same one from which she'd had a single glass before leaving to meet Daniel.

She was trying to act naturally, but she felt dizzy with his presence. Her mind racing...

She fought to keep the reel of her emotions from showing on her face. She poured two glasses as her gaze darted around the room, and a wave of self-consciousness hit her.

It was a bit of a mess—makeup containers from her toiletry bag were scattered over the desk, near her laptop, alongside a discarded glass...

Daniel had moved to the glass door to the balcony, looking out. He had taken off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair.

‘The walk made me feel a bit warm,’ he said, by way of explanation.

The simple domesticity of the gesture sent a shock through her system.

‘To dreams becoming reality,’ he said softly, accepting the glass and turning from the view to look only at her.

Shaking off the intensity of his gaze, she stepped forward and opened the balcony door.

‘Let’s get some air.’

Outside, the city glittered, its lights shimmering on the inky water of the harbour below. They placed their glasses on the small wooden table, ignoring its two chairs, and leaned against the cool concrete railing.

‘I like clear nights like this,’ said Daniel, his voice quieter now, almost part of the night itself. ‘When you can actually see the stars.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Can you see those three, perfectly aligned?’ He pointed, tracing a line in the air.

‘The very bright ones?’

‘Yeah. That’s Orion’s Belt. They’re supergiant. Thousands of times brighter than our sun.’

‘Really? Are you interested in astronomy?’

‘Kind of. It was my father, actually. He was an amateur astronomer. I loved when he’d talk about it.’ He paused, and she could hear his tone imbued with both amusement and nostalgia. ‘I still keep his old telescope in my attic.’

‘That’s a lovely thing to keep.’

‘Sometimes, on nights like this… I just look up through the skylight.’

‘It must be incredible to see them more closely.’

‘It is. It puts things in perspective.’ He turned his head towards her. ‘Did you know the light from those stars, the ones we’re seeing right now, left them over thirteen hundred years ago?’

She looked from the stars to his face, her eyes wide with wonder. ‘That’s… astonishing.’

‘Pretty amazing, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve never looked at the sky through a telescope.’

‘You’re welcome to some time.’

She blushed, worried she might have given him the wrong idea—that she was inviting herself, or that he might think she was expecting something. 

She quickly chattered on to fill the space.

 ‘I had an attic once... at the house where I was raised. It was full of old stuff. Things my parents had accumulated over the years. I liked to play with my dolls up there... There was a small round window, from where I could see the street and the other houses... I think my love of architecture started there. For some reason, I paid attention to the shapes and forms,  of all the old style houses.’

Daniel just listened, nodding with a grin, but it was clear he wasn’t paying so much attention to the words.

‘You have a pleasant voice,’ he said. ‘And I can’t stop looking at your mouth.’

Samara stopped speaking, and gazed at him. ‘What.’

She was amazed by his straightforwardness, yet she had waited for this, since she invited him to come up...

Now he was closing the distance between them.

It felt like a scene from a movie, the kind where you root for the gentleman to finally make his move.

For a moment, Samara could only watch it happen: his hand rising to stroke her face, his fingers finding the back of her head, and then his lips meeting hers.

Lightly, at first. A tentative brush that held its own question. She surrendered in a silent reply.

Then his other arm wrapped around her, pulling her body firmly against his.

It was magical. She was enthralled by his scent, his warmth, the solid strength of him.

A part of her was afraid—afraid of never feeling this kind of reaction again, of becoming reticent towards any man who crossed her path. Yet from the first moment she had met Daniel, everything felt distinct. He possessed a discreet and subtle layer that promised an enjoyable surprise.

Her instincts spoke to her now in a way they never had before. When she had met Bruce, she had been unable to discern anything; it was all blind trust. If there was any positive to be salvaged from that relationship, it was this: she had become more perceptive. She could now read signs, even when they seemed complex.

Daniel had a certain transparency. Her intuition gave her the certainty she wasn’t embarking on a dangerous adventure. It was something else entirely.

So, it felt natural for them to end up in bed. Not with the frenetic urgency of a clandestine meeting, but with the slow, inevitable gravity of a tide finding its shore.

A shared impulse, unspoken and instinctive. A migration from the balcony’s chill to the room’s pooled lamplight, from standing to sitting on the edge of the duvet.

Long fingers accustomed to draw lines, tracing the vulnerable dip of a collarbone.

Delicate ones, used to write notes, tracing a jawline.

A yielding. A gentle unveiling. Buttons gave away to a silent consensus.

Fabric uncovering not just skin, but a quiet growing trust.

Each touch was a translation of a fluent, wordless dialogue that only their bodies could fully comprehend.

This was not about conquest, but discovery.

A careful mapping of new and unknown territories...

The scar on his shoulder, from a boyhood bicycle fall, met the softness of her skin.

His hand traced her contours, and his own control dissolved into the rhythm of their closeness.

The flutter of her pulse at her wrist was an echo of the one in his own throat.

A shared sigh shaped itself into a whisper of the other’s name, that provoked, aroused, and finally, released the tension into a profound understanding.

The city’s distant glitter a witness through the glass, its rhythmic hum a soundtrack to a communion that felt less like a first time and more like a profound recollection...

Here, in the tender collision of their bodies—his fitted into hers, as if they had been designed for each other—the last of her doubts vanished.

Somehow, inexplicably, she had waited for him.

You are the one, they passed between them, not in sound, but in the language of their breath.

Daniel was the surprise his subtle layers had promised: not a sudden storm, but a strong, steady sea breeze that licked away the clinging heat, leaving a fresh, vivid clarity in its wake.

Samara, in turn, was like a feline revealed—her grace bearing a contained, electric wildness, a pleasurable depth that met his own without hesitation.

In the end, they both covered themselves from the cool air, and the night passed with the two lovers sleeping spooning...

 

Dawn greeted them with the sound of the rain lashing the glass.

‘I can’t believe it,’ exclaimed a sleepy Daniel rubbing his eyes.

Samara stirred. ‘What?’

‘It’s raining.’

‘Oh,’ said her, yawning.

Last night was perfect.’

‘The city’s like that. The weather can change from one hour to the next.’

‘In this case, overnight,’ quipped Daniel.

‘What time are you planning to leave today?’ she asked.

‘My car is at my friend’s. I need to pick it up, so we can go anytime. He invited me for drinks last night, but… well, I’d already asked you to dinner.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘No, please, don’t get me wrong. It was my choice. However a crowded bar isn’t really my cup of tea.’

‘What if your friend asks you again?’

‘For drinks? It’s possible, but I’ll decline. Besides, I promised I’d drive you home.’

‘I feel bad now. I’m disrupting your plans.’

‘You’re not, Samara. I made the offer. Truthfully, I might even ask you to stay another night. Not so I can go to a bar, but just… to be with you. Somewhere, just us. What do you think?’

‘It’s tempting...’

Just another call home. Another white lie... Nonetheless, it was worth it.

To be with Daniel a little longer.

Samara’s mind was overruled by her heart. For so long she had given up small pleasures, living only for her work to outrun a dull ache.

No enjoyment, only endurance—bearing her mother’s sulking while her own life passed by. It was more than time to start a new phase.

Daniel had appeared not as a distraction, but as an invitation. An invitation to finally live.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s stay.’

He drew her close, tucking her against his warmth. ‘Then for now, let’s just stay right here a little longer.’

Outside, the rain had intensified, sealing them in their own private world.

 

The day diffused into shades of grey as they chose to appreciate the cosy radius of their shared cocoon—room service breakfast, like a couple on their honeymoon.

They ventured out sometime later, a laughing dash between downpours, returning to the hotel with damp hair like two carefree teenagers.

In a quiet hour, Daniel went to retrieve his car. The separation, though brief, felt strangely vast to them both.

Samara used the time alone to simply be, gazing at the storm-churned harbour, feeling the weight of what had just happened between them settle inside her in a solid, new shape.

That evening, they went back to the same bistro. It was their first repetition, and it felt like a ritual of belonging. They shared the same meal, like a confirmation; the same wine, tasting of a shared memory.

‘I’d like to help you.’

‘With what?’

‘Your architecture degree.’

‘Why that?’

‘Because I want to. I think I have to.’

‘Daniel, we’ve just met. You don’t know me well enough.’

‘I don’t need to. I know I’d be doing the right thing.’

‘I don’t feel comfortable with that.’

‘You don’t have to worry.’

‘But...’

‘Think of it as a loan.’

‘That sounds better. Perhaps I could issue receipts...’

‘If that makes you feel better.’

‘Absolutely.

 

The next morning arrived not with a downpour, but with a fragile, pearl-grey calm. The sea rippled serenely as if resting after the storm; the street, the vegetation, lay wet and freshly washed. Seabirds wheeled and cried over the water, searching for food.

All of a sudden, life had another meaning. Samara saw it from a different angle.

It seemed after months and months of the flood of emotions that made her feel overwhelmed had lifted from her shoulders.

She found a window to look to another direction, or rather, a door, to escape from what had been suffocating her—a new path, not alone, but with company, a promise that she was sure will be realised.

Last night, the last thing she heard from Daniel when they were ready to fall asleep after making love, ‘What I feel for you is love at first sight.’

She didn’t reply...

‘It’s the same thing I feel for you,’ Samara whispered in the morning, as she turned away her gaze from outside and looked back to see him buttoning his shirt, putting on his pants—a gesture that pleased her. At that moment, she intuitively knew that she would see that scene for many, many years to come.

‘Why are you smiling baby?’

‘Nothing... I’m happy.’

‘Good. Me too. He approached and kissed her. ‘Are you ready to go?’

Soon, they were loading their bags into his blue sedan.

‘One of my favourite colours,’ Samara said, running a hand over the car’s roof.

‘Mine as well,’ Daniel grinned. ‘Another thing we have in common.’

Then, the quiet Sunday traffic gave away as they left the city. Wellington released them slowly—the curve of the bay, the green, the last glance of the building roofs, until all that remained in the rearview was the silhouette of hills against the horizon.

He drove north. The road became a spindle, unwinding the tangled, vibrant threads of the last few days and weaving them into something new—a stronger cord that now connected them.

They were no longer travelling to something or from something, but with something.

Something that had united them in a perfect fusion—a communion of feelings, certainties and discoveries.

The space between them in the car filled with a silent agreement. As he shifted gears, his hand found hers resting nearby. He squeezed it lightly, and their fingers intertwined for a few seconds.

A new life together waiting for them ahead...