The chipped ceramic mug warmed Leo’s hands, the steam fogging his glasses. He didn’t bother wiping them. Budapest blurred nicely anyway. Across the cramped table, a woman traced the rim of her own cup, her knuckles white. Her gaze held the Danube.
“So. Warsaw.” Leo finally spoke, the word a little rough around the edges.
“Before that. An orphanage. Small, grey. Always smelled of cabbage and regret.” Elara didn’t look at him, but the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction.
Leo chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. “Cabbage and regret. Sounds about right. Ours had floor polish and disappointment.” He remembered the sting of the polish, the way it coated his tongue when he inevitably fell and tasted the floor.
“They told us different stories, didn’t they?” Elara finally met his gaze, her eyes the color of storm clouds. “Made us believe we were alone in it.”
“Like misplaced pieces.” Leo swirled the dark coffee, watching the liquid slosh against the sides. “Each one, convinced their story was unique, horrific.”
“Mine involved a travelling circus. A lost locket. A man who promised everything and delivered nothing.” Elara’s voice was flat, devoid of inflection.
“A clockmaker and a broken promise,” Leo countered, a flicker of something akin to understanding crossing his face. “Mine involved a clockmaker. Said he’d find my parents. Just…needed time.”
Elara’s lips curved, a ghost of a smile. “They all said that, didn’t they? ‘Just time.’ As if time meant anything to children left in hallways.”
“Funny,” Leo said, picking at a loose thread on his worn coat. “I always pictured the other kid, the one who had it worse. Imagined some epic tragedy. Never thought it would be…this.”
“Similar?” Elara asked, the question hanging in the air.
“A pattern. Like a broken melody, played across different instruments.” Leo lifted the mug to his lips, the coffee bitter. “We were echoes. Lost in different corners of the world, but…hearing the same song.”
Elara leaned forward, her eyes searching his. “Do you think…what we have now…is because of that? The hurt? Or *despite* it?”
“Maybe both.” Leo hesitated. “Maybe the hurt made us look for something…real.”
She looked out at the river, its current a relentless push forward. “Years ago. I might have thought this would be too much. Too…unexpected.”
“Unexpected is good,” Leo said quietly. “Keeps you from getting comfortable.”
“I felt it bloom when I first met you, the first time I held your hands.”
“I felt it, too. It was warmth in a cold room.” Leo’s fingers tightened around his mug. “I don’t care what happened before, what stories they sold us. I care about this.” He gestured between them, a small, hopeful sweep of his hand.
Elara’s gaze softened. “Me, too.” She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers, her touch hesitant, then firm. “It feels…like coming home.”
