It started with a breeze.
Not the gentle kind that kisses your cheeks and drifts past old piazzas, carrying the scent of espresso and fresh stone.
No—this one howled.
Sudden.
Sharp.
Unseasonal.
A wind that felt like something had snapped open in the sky and hadn't remembered how to close.
Florence darkened in the middle of the afternoon—like a cathedral shadow spilling across the Arno.
The light, once golden and forgiving, turned silver.
Then gray.
Then gone.
By the time Elisa reached Piazza Santa Croce, the shift was unmistakable.
The wind swirled through the arches, across the square, down every alley. It didn't just rattle signs—it shouted through them.
---
The tourists fled first.
They scattered like leaves—umbrellas flipping, hats caught midair, bags clutched tightly to their chests as they ran for cover.
A group of schoolchildren squealed in delight until a street vendor's cart banged against stone and sent them shrieking.
Then came the papers.
Sketchbook flyers.
Old receipts.
Napkins, maps, menus.
They swirled like desperate birds—spiraling, lifting, vanishing into the breath of the storm.
---
Elisa didn't notice her mistake until the first fat drop of rain slapped her cheek like a cold hand.
She reached instinctively for her coat.
The corner snagged on the strap of her bag.
The zipper caught.
Everything tumbled.
And then—
her mother's sketchbook slipped from her hands.
---
"No...!"
She lunged, fingers brushing leather... too late.
The wind tore it from her grasp like it had been waiting.
The cover flew open mid-air,
and pages...
precious pages...
ripped free like feathers from a broken bird.
---
Rain hit them instantly.
Charcoal lines bled like opened veins.
Ink blurred into unreadable weeping.
Margins dissolved into watery ghosts of what once was.
---
She ran.
Shoes sliding on wet cobblestone.
Elbows pumping, lungs burning.
She dove for one page—caught it.
Another flew into a fountain.
She reached—missed.
Another slapped against a lamppost.
She grabbed three.
Maybe four.
She slipped.
Fell hard.
Her knees cracked the piazza floor,
palms scraped against ancient stone slick with rain.
By the time she sat back on her heels—soaked, breath ragged, skin raw—
the sketchbook was gone.
Not lost.
Scattered.
Ruined.
By weather.
By carelessness.
By her.
The last thing her mother had ever left her—shredded by wind and sky and her own two hands.
---
A voice behind her:
"Don't move."
Low. Firm.
Familiar.
She turned, dazed.
Rafael.
Coat soaked.
Hair plastered to his forehead.
No umbrella.
His breath misted in front of him like smoke.
He didn't ask what happened.
He didn't need to.
---
He stepped forward.
Held out a hand.
She didn't argue.
Didn't think.
She let him help her up—legs trembling, fingers cold, throat locked.
And then—
without a word—
he turned and sprinted into the storm.
---
She stood stunned as he vanished across the square.
He lunged after pages caught in puddles.
Bent low beneath benches.
Ducked under awnings, reached under café chairs.
Water splashed up his legs.
His sleeves dripped like open wounds.
But he moved like it mattered.
Like her loss was somehow his.
---
Fifteen minutes later, they crouched together beneath a narrow stone archway carved into the edge of an old cathedral wall.
Elisa's jeans were soaked through.
Her hair clung to her temples.
Scratches stung across her knees and palms.
And her throat—
her throat ached with a sob she refused to release.
Between them sat a defeated, dripping pile of pages.
---
Rafael lifted one with care.
Held it up to the muted gray light filtering through the storm mist.
"…Still legible," he murmured. "Barely."
She said nothing.
Her lips were pale.
Pressed so tightly they might never open again.
Then—without a glance at her—
he reached into his satchel.
Unfurled something carefully wrapped in oilskin canvas.
Tools.
A roll of waxed string.
Clips.
Thin tissue.
A tiny knife.
A strip of sanded cloth.
And tape.
Elisa stared.
"You carry that around?"
"I used to restore old journals for extra cash," he said.
She blinked, confused.
"You're joking."
He didn't smile.
Didn't look up.
"You want to sit here and fall apart, that's fine. But I'm not letting you lose this without trying."
---
And with that—he began.
---
He unfolded the pages like wounded wings.
Pressed the wettest ones between napkins.
Taped what he could.
Separated pages that had stuck together.
Used his own scarf to wick moisture from the delicate margins.
She watched.
Still not crying.
Still afraid that if she did, it would never stop.
---
After a while, Rafael spoke again. His voice was quiet—half-thought, half-memory.
"Do you know what paper's like?"
Elisa turned to him, eyes hollow.
"It's patient," he said. "It bleeds, it warps. It suffers. But if you hold it long enough, let it breathe—sometimes it becomes something new."
She finally whispered, "I think I lost her."
Rafael didn't look up.
But his reply was steady.
"No," he said. "She's still here. Just… blurred."
---
When the rain slowed to a mist,
when the air finally softened,
he gathered what he'd saved.
Wrapped it in cloth.
Tied it with waxed string.
And handed it to her with both hands.
"The ones I could salvage."
---
She took it like it was sacred.
Like a relic.
Like her mother's ghost lived in the fibers.
And then—
Elisa cried.
Not loud.
Not broken.
Just soft, steady tears that rolled down her cheeks in silence.
---
Rafael didn't speak.
Didn't reach for her.
Didn't try to stop the tears.
He just sat beside her.
Back against the same wall.
Shoulder against hers.
Like someone who wasn't there to fix things.
Only to witness them.
---
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She didn't check it right away.
But when she did, it read:
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from someone who won't let you fall apart alone.
____________•••____________
---
Elisa exhaled, tears still shining on her cheeks.
And for the first time since the storm began
she didn't feel alone.
She felt seen.