The morning began the way most of them did: with the sharp beep of her alarm and the weight of a hundred unspoken thoughts pressing into her ribs.
Amira sat on the edge of her bed, the blanket still tangled around her ankles. Her apartment was quiet—too quiet—and the pale sunlight filtered through her blinds like tired ghosts.
She brushed her fingers over the photo frame on her nightstand. It was old—worn at the edges. A photo of her as a little girl, standing between her mother and father. Her mother's smile was soft and warm, her eyes kind. Her father's hand had rested on Amira's shoulder, proud and protective.
That was before everything changed.
Before her stepmother.
Before her father began looking at her like a stranger in his home.
Before home stopped feeling like home.
Now, the only place that brought her peace was the museum.
And even that had its bad days.
—
She took her time walking through the cobbled streets of Palermo. Sicily was beautiful this time of year, the sea breeze warm against her cheeks. Tourists buzzed around her like curious bees, loud and disoriented, snapping pictures of buildings they didn't understand.
At least the museum would be calm.
At least there, history stayed the same.
By 10 a.m., she was behind the front desk, her work badge clipped to the collar of her blouse. She'd barely taken two sips of her coffee when the first wave of frustration arrived.
A man—loud, brash, and American by accent—was pointing at a display marked "No Flash Photography" and taking pictures anyway. With flash.
"Sir," she called politely. "Please, flash isn't allowed in the preservation wing."
He rolled his eyes and didn't lower the camera.
"Sir—"
"I paid fifty euros," he snapped. "Don't tell me how to enjoy it."
Amira clenched her jaw but forced a smile. "It's not about the fee. The flash can damage some of the artifacts—"
"Oh, so now I'm damaging things?" He raised an eyebrow. "You got a badge, not a PhD."
"I'm just doing my job."
"Well, do it somewhere else."
The words stung more than they should have. Not because he was rude. She was used to that. But because it reminded her of all the times her stepmother's voice had cut just as cold — and her father had said nothing.
She walked away before her face betrayed her.
By noon, her mood was a crumpled paper bag.
"Bad one?" Rina asked, passing her a bottle of water.
Amira sighed. "Let's just say I've officially been demoted from 'employee' to 'nuisance'."
"Tourists," Rina muttered like it was a curse word. "I say we arm ourselves with museum swords and start charging by the hour."
That made Amira smile. Rina always knew how to pull her back, even when she was spiraling.
But today, not even humor could shake the strange heaviness in her chest.
She walked the halls aimlessly during her break, letting her steps guide her instead of her thoughts. The eastern wing was nearly empty — as always. Quiet. Dimly lit. A comfort.
Her fingers grazed a plaque beneath a golden-edged book.
History was her safe place.
It didn't change like people did. It didn't lie.
She breathed in deeply, letting the silence wrap around her.
And that's when she felt it.
The shift.
A stillness behind her — not threatening, but… magnetic.
She turned slowly.
And saw him.
Dark-haired, impossibly composed, with eyes that held a storm and yet somehow made her feel still.
The man from the street.
The bar.
The one who left without a word.
The one who hadn't left her thoughts since.
Amira blinked, once, to make sure he was real.
"I should've guessed you'd haunt quiet places," she said before she could stop herself.
He tilted his head, something unreadable in his gaze. "I could say the same."
"You stalking me?"
"Coincidence."
She raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. Dangerous word."
He didn't answer. Just watched her.
Her heart was doing things it shouldn't. She hated it. Hated that someone could have such an effect with a look.
She moved beside him, both of them now staring at a dagger encased in glass.
"You like weapons?" she asked, testing the silence.
"They're honest."
That made her laugh — softly, but genuinely. "And yet, you're so quiet in person. You don't seem the type to talk much."
"I talk when I need to."
Still no smile. Still no reply.
And yet, he didn't walk away.
Not yet.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable — it was heavy with something else. Charged.
But fleeting.
---
She sat at the break table later, trying to focus on the staff schedule, but his voice kept replaying in her mind.
"They're honest."
Who was he?
Why did he make everything else fade?
"Okay, now you tell me what the hell that was," Rina said, practically dropping into the seat across from her.
"What?"
"That guy. The one who walked out like he owned the place. You were talking to him like he was some ghost you summoned."
"I was not."
"Oh please," Rina scoffed. "I saw him at the bar the other night, remember? The one with the eyes? Those eyes?"
"I didn't notice his eyes."
"Lies. You noticed his everything. So… who is he?"
Amira sipped her water. "I don't know."
"You like him, don't you?"
"What? I don't even know him."
"Well…" Rina grinned, "he's fine. So if you don't take him, God knows I will."
They both burst out laughing — the sound bouncing off the walls, warming Amira's chest.
And for the first time all day… she didn't feel alone.