Wednesday began with the kind of brightness that refused modesty. The harbor flashed gold, the sky had the confidence of a decision already made, and Café Lumièra smelled of toast and questions. Mira turned the sign to *Open* but didn’t unlock the door right away. Some mornings required permission.  

The blue envelope still sat beneath the counter light. She had read it again before sleeping, and again upon waking, as if the words might rearrange themselves into certainty. They hadn’t.  

The cat jumped onto the register, knocking over a spoon. “You too?” she said. “Team indecision?”  

It blinked, unbothered, then curled up on the envelope itself, declaring neutral occupation.  

Aiden arrived early, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, eyes half-tired, half-determined. “Morning.”  

“Define morning.”  

“The period between doubt and caffeine.”  

“Then we’re late.”  

He leaned on the counter. “I thought about Paris.”  

“Dangerous hobby.”  

“Camille’s offer isn’t just nostalgia. It’s work. Real walls, real viewers.”  

“I’m aware.”  

“And you hate exposure.”  

“I’m evolving.”  

“Into what?”  

“Someone who leaves before she hesitates.”  

He smiled faintly. “So we’re going?”  

“I didn’t say that.”  

“You almost did.”  

“Almost is my specialty.”  

Carlo entered at that moment, saving her from further accuracy. “You two look like characters in an unfinished sentence.”  

“Appropriate,” Aiden said. “We’re considering punctuation.”  

“Period or ellipsis?”  

“Comma,” Mira muttered. “Always a comma.”  

By midmorning, the café filled. Students ordered sweet coffee, tourists took photos of pastries like witnesses to history. Mira moved through the motions, her mind orbiting the same sentence: *If we go, what happens to what we’ve built here?*  

Aiden worked at his usual table sketching between refills. At one point he lifted his head and said, “The light’s different today.”  

“It’s just cleaner after the rain.”  

“No—it’s more decisive. Look.”  

He turned his sketchbook so she could see: the café interior drawn in quick graphite lines, but every window flamed with sun. “Lumièra means light,” he said. “Maybe it’s reminding us what it’s for.”  

“To stay or to leave?”  

“To be noticed.”  

She laughed softly. “I preferred it when it only served croissants.”  

At noon, Carlo brought them sandwiches and unsolicited advice. “Listen,” he said, sitting backward on a chair like a philosopher on holiday, “you can leave this city, but it will follow you in crumbs. I tried once.”  

“Where?” Mira asked.  

“Naples. Three days. They ran out of my coffee.”  

“That’s tragic.”  

“Epic.”  

He grinned. “You’ll go. I can see it.”  

“You always think you can see everything.”  

“Observation is contagious.”  

He left humming, probably composing another sermon about destiny and espresso beans.  

Afternoon drifted quietly. The air grew warmer, sea salt mixing with cinnamon. Aiden painted upstairs; Mira wrote in the notebook she hadn’t opened in weeks.  

> *If we go, will the silence travel? Or does each city lend its own version? Maybe the noise is what makes us visible.*

She stopped there, unsure whether she was writing a thought or a warning.  

At four, she climbed the stairs with two cups of coffee. Aiden stood by the window, the harbor reflected across his canvas. “Looks like it’s deciding for us,” she said.  

“Maybe decisions are just scenery pretending to wait.”  

“You and your metaphors.”  

“They pay rent.”  

He turned, eyes bright. “Come with me.”  

“I’m standing right here.”  

“To Paris.”  

She looked out the window where the light scattered like reasons. “You really want to go?”  

“I really don’t want not to.”  

“That’s confusing.”  

“That’s honest.”  

Evening arrived painted in gold and fatigue. The café was empty except for the cat, who had forgiven the idea of change by sleeping through it. Mira wiped the counter, each circle smaller, cleaner, until the surface reflected her face and the envelope beside it.  

Aiden came down, carrying his travel bag—a small one, old leather, the kind that promised departures but not destinations.  

“You packed?” she asked.  

“Trial run.”  

“Optimistic.”  

“Prepared.”  

He placed the bag beside the counter. “There’s a train tomorrow. Noon. To Marseille, then north.”  

“You already bought tickets?”  

“One. The other’s optional.”  

“You assume a lot.”  

“I observe efficiently.”  

She laughed. “You’ve learned from the best.”  

He looked at her a long time, then said, “You don’t owe this city permanence.”  

“And you don’t owe me Paris.”  

“Maybe we both owe ourselves movement.”  

When he left, the air inside the café seemed to expand, as if the walls exhaled relief or warning—she couldn’t tell.  

Mira sat with the blue envelope again, unfolding it until the edges frayed slightly. The train ticket gleamed under the lamp. She turned it over and wrote on the blank side in small careful letters:  

> *Observation #62 — Light doesn’t choose where to fall. It only waits for someone to notice.*

She slid the note into her notebook, next to the earlier one about doors. Then she stood, walked to the door itself, and flipped the sign to *Closed.*  

Outside, the city glowed like something about to be remembered.  

She locked up, whispering to the empty room, “Let’s see what the light decides.”