The rain had stopped, leaving a slick sheen on the cobblestones of the old city. She stood framed in the doorway of a tiny, overflowing bookstore, the scent of aged paper and damp wool clinging to her. Her hand rested on the worn spine of a poetry collection, but her gaze was fixed on the street. A single, flickering gas lamp cast long shadows, illuminating the empty pavement. He was supposed to meet her here, an hour ago. She’d chosen this spot, a place they both loved, filled with the ghosts of forgotten stories. Now, the silence felt heavy, punctuated only by the distant chime of a clock tower. Her fingers tightened around the book, a small, involuntary gesture of disappointment, and a single tear traced a path down her cheek, reflecting the lamplight like a tiny, lost star.