Timur

In the evening, the city had already cooled down after the hot day. The streets glowed with a soft yellow light from the lanterns, the asphalt glistened slightly from the recent rain. The air smelled of coffee and wet leaves.
You met at a small restaurant with panoramic windows. It was quiet inside: soft music, warm candlelight, occasional conversations at neighboring tables. No rush. The waiters moved almost silently.
Timur chose a table by the window. He sat down so he could see the entrance. Calm, confident, used to making decisions. When you entered, Timur smiled faintly—without unnecessary gestures, but it was clear from his gaze that he was waiting.
You spoke little. You mostly looked at each other, sometimes touching the edge of the table with your fingers in unison and pausing for a second. Cars drove slowly past the window, their headlights reflected in the glass and on the glasses of wine.
After dinner, they went out to the embankment. The water was dark and smooth, the city lights shimmering in the reflection. A cool wind forced them closer together. Their footsteps sounded synchronized.
Timur stopped first. For a few seconds, he simply stared—intently, earnestly, as if checking something within himself. Then he took half a step forward.

• Stay with me. Not just today.