"I haven't written to you in a while because I had to flee, as the city became unlivable."
Cardinal Jean-Paul, Date Unknown.
Francis waved to Camila as she disappeared toward the chicken coop. The clucking and flapping marked her morning chore, but she spared him one small smile before vanishing behind the door.
He kept walking, boots tapping against the worn cobblestones. The smell of fresh bread drew him down the narrow street. The bakery was little more than a squat wooden shack with a faded sign, but he wasn't exactly going to eat the building.
"Morning, Francis," the old woman called from behind the counter. Her hands were dusted with flour. She was kneading another batch in a slow manner.
"Morning," Francis said, dropping a copper coin on the counter. "One loaf, as usual."
She slid a steaming loaf across the counter. Its aroma hit him, a small comfort in a town that offered so few. He thanked her, nodded at her slight grin, and tucked the bread under his arm.
The streets were quiet. Most hadn't fully woken yet. Francis passed closed houses and empty stalls until the bar appeared. Its sign swung slowly in the breeze, and the windows were fogged as they usually were around this time.
Inside, the smell of cheap alcohol hung in the air. The old men weren't there yet. He set the loaf on the counter, feeling its warmth through the wood, and readied himself for another day of mugs, chatter, and quiet monotony.
The promised monotony arrived. Mugs refilled, coins counted, chatter predictable as ever. It gave Francis time to think. No ship had come yet. That was fine—one would, eventually.
Better to focus on what he could do to be ready when it did, rather than dream about it and find himself unprepared.
The thought lingered only briefly. Action had never been his strongest suit.
And as the shift ended a while later. Francis slipped out, eager to leave the drunkards' nonsense behind.
He made his way to Camila's house and knocked.
The door opened—not Camila, but her mother.
"Francis! What a surprise," the older woman said, smiling. Her face was almost Camila's, only lined and weathered by time and grief.
"Good morning, ma'am," Francis said, stepping inside.
"Come in, come in. Camila's just in the bath." She led him into the small house. "How is it going? Work at the bar treating you well?"
"Same old, truly," he replied.
There was a pause. Her mother's eyes twinkled with curiosity. "You know, a fine young man like you being single is such a shame."
Francis coughed awkwardly. "Ah… well, I'm… waiting for the right person, you know?"
The older woman laughed softly. "Ah, yes. Of course. But between you and me… I think you'd make a wonderful husband. My daughter—well, you can see what a gem she is."
Francis shifted on his feet, offering a polite smile. "She is. Truly. That's why I—uh—I'm glad to spend some time with her."
"Time well spent, I'm sure," her mother said, nodding knowingly. "Now, don't let me keep you. Go on—Camila will be out soon enough."
A few moments later, Camila appeared. She wore a simple red dress and sandals on her feet, perhaps unsurprisingly.
"Sorry I took so long," she said, brushing damp strands of jet-black hair behind her ear.
"No problem," Francis replied, eyes lingering a little too long on her.
Her mother seemed to notice and then smiled faintly. "Don't keep her waiting now, Francis."
Camila waved, oblivious, and led him outside.
Francis glanced at her. "Where do you want me to read it? Here, or…?"
"Your house," Camila said without hesitation. Francis ignored the subtext and nodded. "Alright, then. Let's go."
They walked down the quiet streets, the late afternoon sun painting the street golden.
"What kind of book is it?" she asked, glancing up at him.
Francis smiled faintly. "Knights of the Round Table. A sword in a stone. Princes, battles, magic… honor, betrayal. All that."
Her eyes lit up. "Really? That sounds amazing!"
She picked up the pace, practically skipping with excitement. Francis had no choice but to quicken his own steps, keeping up as the sun dipped closer to the horizon.
The town was a small one, thus they reached his home not long after. Francis fumbled with the key before opening the door.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said, stepping inside. What remained of the loaf rested on the counter; the rest had been eaten throughout the day. The apartment was small and sparsely furnished, but it was comfortable nevertheless.
Camila's eyes roamed the room, lingering on the few books stacked haphazardly and the tiny bed pushed against the wall. "Where do you want me?" she asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Here," he said, gesturing to the bed. "Sit. I'll read to you from here."
She perched on the edge, hands folded in her lap, eager and impatient. Francis settled beside her on the bed, opening a worn book with a cracked spine and yellowed pages.
She leaned closer, hanging on every word, and Francis felt a warmth that had little to do with the sunlight. It wasn't peace or quiet that made him feel good—it was this. Being needed. Sharing something, making her eyes light up with wonder.
For a moment, his thoughts about ships, the sea, and adventure faded. He almost wondered if leaving would mean giving up moments like this. The pull of the horizon felt distant, quieter than the small joy of seeing her so alive.
Camila leaned forward, eyes wide, hanging on his every word. "And then the knight—he really fought the dragon?"
"Yes," Francis said, turning the page. "Bravest of them all. Risked everything for the kingdom."
She giggled, her excitement spilling over. "I wish I could be brave like that."
"You are," he said before he could stop himself. "You're braver than most."
Her smile faltered, just for a moment, then returned. "Brave enough to sneak around reading with you?"
Francis chuckled softly. "I suppose that counts."
She leaned closer again, tracing the edge of the page with her finger. "Tell me what happens next. Please."
He read on, and the room grew warmer—not from the sun, which had begun sinking, but from the quiet closeness between them. The words flowed, but the silence between each sentence spoke just as loudly.
"Francis," she murmured, "do you think knights ever felt afraid?"
He glanced at her, then back at the book. "They did. They just didn't let it stop them."
She nodded slowly, her voice almost a whisper. "There is a lot to learn there."
He didn't respond. Just turned another page.
Hours slipped by. Dusk giving way to a starry night. Eventually, Camila shifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "It's getting late. I should go."
Francis rose, grabbing his coat. "I'll walk you home."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "No need. We all know each other, remember?"
"I know," he said, "but—"
"No, really," she interrupted, smiling faintly. "I'll be fine. You don't have to."
Francis hesitated, then gave a resigned nod.
Camila finally stepped out, brushing another strand of hair behind her ear. "Goodnight, Francis," she said softly, a small smile lingering.
He nodded, stepping back toward his door. "Take care," he murmured, watching her disappear down the stairs.
Once inside, he locked the door behind him and paused for a moment. The apartment felt emptier than usual, the humid evening air pressing against the walls. Normally, he would have retreated to his bed or taken up a book, but tonight, the quiet gnawed at him. He realized he hadn't had his fill of conversation, of human presence — something rare for him, but now insistent.
With a small sigh, he pulled on his coat, tucked the remaining piece of bread into a bag, and stepped back into the streets. The evening was cooler than the day, the sun long gone, leaving only the soft glow of lanterns swaying in the coastal wind.
He made his way to the bar he worked at. The door creaked as he pushed it open, and the room immediately felt different than in the morning. Patrons laughed and argued over cards, mugs sloshing with rum and ale, a fire he seldom saw crackling in the hearth.
And then the room gazed back.
Heads turned. Conversations stuttered mid-sentence. Mugs were frozen in the air. Even the rowdiest drunkards fell silent for a heartbeat, registering the rare sight of Francis wandering in at this hour.
He was no stranger to them. Most knew him as the quiet one, the lad who kept to himself, the sort who wiped counters more than he spoke. Rumor had even given him a reputation: the weirdo orphan. His appearance now was enough to spark whispers and nudges across the room. The stir grew tenfold as they realized he was actually here.
Francis stepped further inside, letting the noise wash over him. Part of him braced for awkward attention, but another part, the part that had just felt too little connection with the world, felt a small, unexpected thrill. He belonged here, in his way, even if only for a few hours.