Tourist

"The fog doesn't read the forecast," she shrugged. "You’re the type who likes to be on time, aren't you?"

"The sun?" Elias asked, checking his watch. "The forecast said clear skies."

Elias was a "proper" tourist. He had the laminated itinerary, the pre-booked walking tours, and a portable battery pack that could jump-start a small car. He had spent months reading travel blogs like The Guardian to ensure he didn't miss a single "must-see" monument. But as he stood on the Charles Bridge, waiting for a sunrise that was currently smothered by a thick, grey fog, the checklist in his pocket felt heavy. tourist

"It's not coming," she said, her voice raspy. She was wrapped in a wool coat that had seen better decades, holding a thermos.

The sun wasn’t even up when Elias pulled his suitcase over the cobblestones of Prague. The sound—a rhythmic clack-clack-clack —echoed against the silent, gothic facades, making him feel like an intruder in a sleeping giant’s bedroom. "The fog doesn't read the forecast," she shrugged

Elias stiffened. "I like to be prepared. I’m only here for three days."

He looked at his map. 06:00: Sunrise at Charles Bridge. 07:30: Breakfast at Café Savoy. He had the laminated itinerary, the pre-booked walking

For the first time since he landed, Elias didn't look at his watch. He wasn't a tourist anymore; he was just a man in a room, in a city, at a moment that wasn't scheduled.