Sunday began without announcements. The city slept in, the trams slower, the sky a cautious blue. Inside Café Lumièra the air tasted of reheated bread and yesterday’s conversation. Mira opened early out of habit, not expectation.  

She brewed coffee for one, then for none. The cat leapt onto the counter, sniffed the cup, decided indifference was safer.  

Carlo texted to say he was taking the day off for “spiritual maintenance,” which she translated as *sleeping until noon.* For the first time in weeks, the café belonged entirely to its quiet.  

Aiden didn’t appear at eight, or at all. She didn’t message him. It wasn’t pride—it was observation. Sometimes silence said more if left unsupervised.  

At ten, a few regulars came and went, their chatter soft as background music. Mira served them automatically, her mind stuck between memory and inventory. Every movement replayed in smaller loops: wipe, pour, smile, nod. The rhythm was survival disguised as routine.  

When she looked at the empty chair by the window—the one Aiden usually claimed—she found herself adjusting its position slightly, as if straightening an invisible outline. The act embarrassed her. She turned the chair back again, pretending it had moved on its own.  

Outside, the wind changed direction. Flags at the harbor shifted like indecisive thoughts.  

By noon the clouds lowered, erasing the color from everything. Mira closed early, writing *Out for deliveries* on the sign though she had nowhere to go. She locked up and walked toward the pier.  

The air smelled of salt and metal. Vendors shouted half-heartedly; gulls argued about crumbs. She stopped by the warehouse gallery—now empty, lights off, windows papered with the words *Thank you for visiting.* Through a tear in the poster she saw the bare wall where the harbor sketch had hung. Only a faint rectangle of cleaner white remained.  

She remembered Aiden’s line: *Patience.*  

Patience, she thought, wasn’t waiting—it was what you did instead of waiting.  

Back at the café she reheated soup she didn’t want. The cat demanded a seat at the table; she gave it one. The rain began again, fine as pencil marks. She took out her notebook but couldn’t write. The pen hovered above the page, uncertain of tone.  

Finally she wrote a single word—*Today.* Then nothing else.  

She closed the book, frustrated by its simplicity. Maybe that was honesty.  

The clock ticked loudly, measuring her restraint. She told herself not to check her phone. She checked it anyway. No messages.  

The silence, she realized, had a temperature. Warm in the morning, colder now.  

At six, the doorbell startled her. Not Aiden—just a courier, holding a flat package wrapped in brown paper. “Delivery for Café Lumièra,” he said. No sender listed. She signed, opened it carefully.  

Inside was a sketch.  

A single scene: the café interior seen from the outside window. Empty tables. Light from the espresso machine glowing like a lighthouse in miniature. On the counter, a cup left steaming. In the window’s reflection, faint but certain, two silhouettes facing each other—neither defined, both waiting.  

No signature. Just a small note on the corner: *For the day words didn’t show up.*  

Mira touched the paper’s edge. Her throat ached with the urge to laugh or cry but did neither. She pinned the drawing beside the others. The cat sniffed it once and approved.  

Night came early. She sat at the counter with a cup gone cold, the sound of drizzle returning like an old refrain.  

She opened her notebook again.

> *Observation #58 — Sometimes silence isn’t absence. It’s rehearsal.*

She left the page open, the ink still drying, and whispered to no one, “Tomorrow, then.”  

The cat blinked as if agreeing, and outside the city exhaled—quiet, patient, almost ready to speak.