Friday arrived quietly, like a held breath before a question. The café smelled of vanilla and new beginnings, though Mira didn’t trust either. Two days remained before the harbor art fair, and Aiden had been upstairs since dawn, leaving a faint thrum of movement through the ceiling like another heartbeat above hers.

Carlo whistled as he polished glasses. “Our resident artist nesting again?”  

“Preparing,” she said.  

“For what?”  

“Public scrutiny.”  

“Ah,” Carlo said, “the natural enemy of shy people.”  

She smiled, then caught herself. “He’s not shy.”  

“Then who’s the enemy?”  

“People who ask too many questions.”  

He pointed a thumb at himself. “I surrender.”

At eight-thirty, Aiden came down carrying a sketch folder thicker than yesterday’s silence. His eyes looked both tired and alive.  

“Morning,” he said.  

“Survivor of caffeine withdrawal,” she replied, handing him a cup.  

He accepted it with mock solemnity. “The only cure is more caffeine.”  

The cat jumped onto his shoulder like an entitled parrot.  

“See?” he said. “Royal endorsement.”

They opened the back door to let in the sea breeze. The morning light made the café glow like a film still. Mira wiped the counter, pretending not to notice how easily their rhythm had settled again.  

“What will you show at the fair?” she asked.  

“Sketches,” he said. “Mostly you.”  

She nearly dropped the rag. “What?”  

He grinned. “Not portraits—moments. Hands, cups, light on the counter. You, when you’re not aware.”  

“That’s worse.”  

“It’s honest.”  

“It’s invasive.”  

“It’s observation.”  

She sighed. “You’re impossible.”  

“I prefer consistent.”  

Carlo passed by humming. “Consistent impossibility—title of his autobiography.”

At noon, the café filled with tourists. Between orders, Mira noticed Aiden flipping through his sketchbook at the corner table, checking something repeatedly. His smile faded. He turned another page, then another, faster each time.  

She approached. “What’s wrong?”  

He hesitated. “One of the drawings is gone.”  

“Gone?”  

“Torn out. Yesterday it was there.”  

“Maybe you misplaced it.”  

“I don’t misplace paper. Someone took it.”  

He checked his bag again, expression tightening. Carlo leaned over. “What’s missing?”  

“Sketch,” Aiden said. “From Tuesday.”  

Carlo frowned. “Customers were near the table this morning.”  

“Which one?” Mira asked.  

“The woman with the red umbrella. She paid cash.”  

Mira remembered her—tourist accent, curious eyes. She had asked about the café’s name, then stared too long at the walls.

Aiden rubbed his temple. “I should have scanned it.”  

“What was it?”  

He hesitated. “You. The morning with the torch. The sugar looked like sunrise.”  

Mira’s chest tightened. “Then maybe it was admiration.”  

“Or theft.”  

“Sometimes the same thing.”  

That evening, after closing, she found him upstairs pacing between canvases. The folder lay open on the table, the torn edge of paper glaring white.  

“You can’t know for sure it was stolen,” she said.  

“I can’t not know, either.”  

She approached. “You think she’ll sell it?”  

“Or post it. Or worse—interpret it.”  

She smiled faintly. “Artists hate competition?”  

“Artists hate exposure.”  

“You mean being seen?”  

He looked at her. “You know exactly what I mean.”

For a moment they stood in the middle of the studio, surrounded by charcoal dust and the smell of turpentine. Outside, gulls screamed like distant laughter.  

“Do you want me to help?” she asked.  

“How?”  

“Observation is my specialty.”  

He laughed once, low and tired. “You’d follow strangers for art?”  

“For justice.”  

“Same difference.”  

“Exactly.”

The next morning, she left a note on the counter—*Back in ten minutes*—and walked toward the harbor market. The fair preparations had already begun: stalls, banners, the smell of salt and paint. Near a book stand, she saw the woman with the red umbrella, folded now against her arm. A sketchbook peeked from her tote.  

Mira approached. “Excuse me—did you visit Café Lumièra yesterday?”  

The woman turned, startled. “Yes. Lovely place.”  

“Did you happen to find a drawing left on the table?”  

The woman blinked, then opened her tote. Inside, neatly folded, was the missing sketch. “Oh! I meant to return it. I thought it was a flyer.”  

Mira exhaled. “May I?”  

“Of course.”  

She took it carefully, smoothing the creased edge. The lines were unmistakable—Aiden’s quick graphite, her own silhouette behind the torch, a flick of light captured mid-motion.  

“Beautiful,” the woman said. “You’re the subject, aren’t you?”  

Mira smiled politely. “Only accidentally.”  

She thanked her, hurried back to the café, and found Aiden cleaning brushes.  

“Found it,” she said, holding the page like a truce flag.  

He stared, incredulous. “How?”  

“She mistook it for advertising.”  

He laughed, half in relief, half disbelief. “Maybe the universe is better at irony than I am.”  

“Keep better flyers next time.”  

“Lesson learned.”  

He pinned the sketch to the studio wall with a single clip. The paper fluttered in the breeze from the open window.  

“You know,” he said, “I thought I’d be angry.”  

“And?”  

“I’m just glad someone wanted it enough to take.”  

“That’s dangerously optimistic.”  

“Maybe it’s yours.”  

“Mine?”  

“You found it. Finders keepers.”  

She shook her head. “No. Observers return.”  

That night, the café was quiet except for rain. Mira wiped the tables, the smell of sugar lingering from the day’s custards. Aiden sat by the window, sketching again, this time the reflection of the streetlights in the puddles.  

“Do you ever stop drawing?” she asked.  

“When I’m seen,” he said.  

“Then stop.”  

He looked up, smiling. “Order received.”

She turned off the last light. The city outside was silver with rain, and the missing sketch—no longer missing—hung upstairs, edges still trembling as if remembering the wind.

She opened her notebook before locking the door.

> *Observation #49 — Losing something teaches you the shape of its absence. Finding it teaches you the patience of return.*

The ink bled slightly where a drop of rain had touched the page, turning one word—*return*—into a soft blur that looked almost like light.