Florence, late afternoon
They met again without planning to.
That was becoming a pattern.
A rhythm neither of them admitted aloud.
The sky was soft and slanted, painted in long, golden brushstrokes—as if the sun itself had dipped its fingers in watercolor and dragged them across the dome of Florence. The shadows were long, thin things, stretching like tired dancers over cobblestones.
Elisa had been walking aimlessly through the streets of Via dei Neri, following nothing but the scent of roasted hazelnuts and citrus peel—sharp, sweet, familiar. It was the kind of fragrance that made her feel like she was walking through her mother's memory rather than her own.
And then, like déjàvu turning the corner, she saw him.
Rafael.
He was already there, seated on a worn stone bench outside Gelato Maraviglia, the tiny, somewhat hidden gelateria tucked between a bookstore and a locked-up art supply shop. His hair caught the light like wet ink, and his eyes found hers immediately.
In his hands were two small paper cups of gelato.
He didn't look surprised.
"I was about to eat both," he said.
Elisa blinked, slow.
A smile tugged at her lips despite herself.
"You always assume I'll show up?"
"No," Rafael said, lifting one cup toward her. "But I've been right so far."
She took the cup from his outstretched hand. Cool fingers brushed hers.
"Stracciatella?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Sweet cream. Dash of pistachio on top."
"You guessed the flavor?"
"I guessed your mood."
She took a spoonful and let it melt in her mouth.
It was creamy and light and absurdly good—like silence after too much noise.
"I hate that you're right," she murmured.
Rafael leaned back on the bench, content.
"Some people are born lucky," he said. "Others learn to pay attention."
---
They sat together as the street began to exhale.
The pulse of Florence shifted.
Shops pulled their shutters halfway.
Locals passed by with soft voices and tired feet.
Tourists disappeared into dinner reservations.
The sun kept falling.
But the city—Florence never truly went quiet.
There was always the hush of bicycles skimming past, the whisper of espresso cups clinking through café windows, the laughter of children echoing from some rooftop courtyard.
And between all that, a hum.
Alive. Old. Lingering.
---
Rafael finished his gelato first.
Elisa took longer.
She held the cup like it anchored her—spoon moving in slow, distracted circles.
It wasn't about savoring the flavor.
It was about not moving forward.
Finally, her voice broke the stillness.
"I hate that she left me nothing but a sketchbook."
Rafael didn't interrupt.
"She used to say, 'Look for beauty. Always. Especially where you think it shouldn't be.' But she never told me what beauty looked like. She just said I'd know. I still don't know."
Still, he didn't speak.
"She got sick during my second year of university. Still worked. Still learn. And even when the cancer got worse... when her voice was barely above a whisper... she'd wake up and draw."
Elisa's fingers tightened around the cup. Her nails bit into the cardboard.
"Sometimes I think that sketchbook meant more to her than I did."
She waited.
Waited for him to say Don't be ridiculous or That's not true—anything quick, comforting, shallow.
But Rafael didn't offer her a lifeline.
Instead, he asked softly, "Do you remember the last thing she ever drew?"
Elisa blinked.
Then nodded.
"The Duomo," she said. "Just like you. But she never finished the right side. Her hand was shaking too much by then."
"She gave it to you?"
"No," Elisa said, her voice brittle. "She left it on the kitchen table. I found it after the hospital called."
She stared into her cup.
The gelato was a half-melted memory now, swirling into itself.
Her throat tightened. The flavor turned bitter against the grief curling inside her chest.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this."
"Because you're tired of carrying it alone."
Elisa looked up, startled.
Rafael's voice wasn't soft. It was solid.
Like stone under bare feet.
Like something he'd learned the hard way.
And in that steadiness, she heard the echo of something else—someone who had known what it meant to carry weight that left marks.
---
"Was there someone you lost?" she asked.
Rafael leaned back against the wall behind him. The texture of the stone pressed into his spine.
"Not someone," he said after a pause. "Something."
She tilted her head. "What?"
"My belief that art meant anything."
That surprised her.
Rafael always looked like someone who had art in his blood.
In the way he noticed colors, light, angles.
In the way he never hurried, like he was sketching every second in his mind.
"I used to paint professionally," he continued. "Sold work. Had pieces shown. I was the youngest artist featured at a gallery exhibit in Berlin. I should've felt proud."
He hesitated.
"But then there was the fire. One gallery. One night. A fuse, they think. Everything gone. Canvases, portfolios, originals—years of work."
Elisa's voice caught in her throat.
"Your paintings?"
Rafael's lips barely moved.
"My reasons."
---
She didn't say I'm sorry.
She didn't know if that would be for the paintings—or the pain.
Instead, she asked, "Did you ever try again?"
He turned to her slowly.
Something in his expression—quiet, unreadable—spoke of ash and aftermath.
"No one wants a canvas that smells like smoke."
---
The sun dipped below the rooftops.
Shadows shifted again.
Longer now, softer.
The faint music of a violin floated from an open window nearby—sorrowful and slow.
Like it, too, was remembering something.
Elisa finished her gelato.
She set her cup down beside his, the edges of the cardboard touching.
And whispered, almost to herself, "I think we're both ghosts."
Rafael blinked, startled.
"You of your past," she said. "Me of someone else's."
They sat in silence.
Not the kind that needed filling.
But the kind that had room in it—for everything unspoken.
The gelateria had closed.
The shutters half-drawn.
A cat darted between potted plants nearby.
The smell of almonds wafted from the bakery next door—warm, sweet, nostalgic.
And just as Rafael opened his mouth to respond, Elisa's phone vibrated against her coat.
She glanced at the screen.
A notification.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from haunting each other into healing.
____________•••____________
Rafael tilted his head.
"Was that a ghost texting you?"
Elisa smiled faintly, then stood.
He didn't follow.
She turned back, met his eyes.
"I'm walking toward the river," she said. "But I'm not trying to find anything this time."
He rose slowly.
"I'll haunt you from a respectful distance."
Their laughter was soft. Real.
The kind that carried the ache of something healing.
Together, they disappeared down the narrowing street—
Two ghosts made of grief, gelato, and the faintest hope.
The kind of hope that didn't glow.
It flickered.
But it stayed lit.