Tourist

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?" Elias asked, checking his watch. "The forecast said clear skies." 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 was a "proper" tourist

He looked at his map. 06:00: Sunrise at Charles Bridge. 07:30: Breakfast at Café Savoy. But as he stood on the Charles Bridge,

Elias took the key. He walked away from the bridge, leaving the fog-drenched statues behind. He found the shop—a tiny sliver of a building wedged between a bakery and a bookstore. When he turned the key, the smell of oil and old wood hit him. He climbed the narrow spiral stairs and pushed open the heavy wooden shutters.

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.