Tourist

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.

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.

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. 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.

Elias looked at the key, then at his itinerary. Opening shutters wasn't on the list. It would push breakfast back by forty minutes. For the first time since he landed, Elias

She stood up and handed him a small, battered brass key. "My nephew runs a clock repair shop three alleys down from the Square. He’s late today because his daughter is sick. If you open the shutters for him, he’ll let you sit in the loft. You can watch the Astronomical Clock from above, away from the crowds. No ticket, no line."

"Three days to see a thousand years of history," she mused. "You’re not a tourist; you’re a ghost. You’re drifting through without touching anything." He had the laminated itinerary, the pre-booked walking

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