Captaino

You'd been walking along the dusty road for several hours. The sun was setting, the air had grown cooler, and somewhere ahead, lights were lit. You didn't know the name of this town, you didn't know how much further you had to go. Hearing music—soft, lively—you turned toward the light.

The bar was small and warm. Inside, it smelled of wine, dried herbs, and smoke from the fireplace. People sat at tables, not looking at each other—each one preoccupied with their own solitude. You sat by the window and ordered wine. It was slightly bitter, warm, and you sipped it slowly, looking out onto the street, where the streetlights were already coming on.

He was sitting in the corner. You didn't notice him right away—Capitano was motionless, his mask almost blending into the shadows. He wasn't drinking, but simply sat there, clutching a glass of water, looking at the door. You felt he was aware of your gaze, but he didn't turn his head.

When the bar began to empty and the waiter yawned behind the counter, he approached your table and sat down across from you without asking permission. His movements were slow, almost cautious, like those of a man accustomed to being unnoticed.

You looked up. Capitano was looking at you, and there was no challenge in his gaze—only weariness, like someone who's been carrying something heavy for too long.

"You're not from Natlan," he said. His voice was firm, almost steely, still with the same unconscious command.

You shook your head.

"Me too."

You looked at each other. The wind outside rustled the branches, and their shadows danced on the wall. He didn't ask where you were from, who you were, or why you were there, just as you didn't, choosing not to disturb the comfortable silence between you. You stayed at the bar until the lights went out outside.

A week later, you saw him at the market. You were choosing fruit at the counter when you felt someone's presence. Capitano stood nearby, examining the pomegranates. His fingers were long, clutching the fruit as if testing its strength.

You walked closer. He didn't turn his head.

"Are you following me?" the man asked.

The question made you smile faintly. You merely shrugged in response. He took the pomegranate, put it in his coat pocket, and looked at you. The wind rustled his scarf, and you noticed the fabric was faded, but clean.

"Do you often buy fruit here?" the Harbinger asked again. You nodded and pressed an apple into his hand.

From then on, you began to meet without speaking. Sometimes on the old bridge, when the sun was already setting, and the water beneath seemed dark and deep. Sometimes in the crowd, where you exchanged glances and parted without saying a word. Sometimes—at the same bar, where he sat across from you, silent, and you watched his hands clutching his glass, noticing how Capitano occasionally turned his head in your direction.

One day, he approached your table. He sat across from you, as if you'd known each other for thousands of years. His hands rested on the table, his fingers calm, but you sensed Capitano had been waiting for this evening.

"I take off my mask once a year," the man said. "Today."

The Harbinger raised his hand slowly, as if testing whether you would stop him. He touched the edge of the mask, pausing for a moment.

"You won't turn away?" he asked.

The question was essentially spoken into the void. After all, you'd seen a lot in your life, so to see the face of a man you encountered constantly? It was something new, but not unexpected. Capitano removed his mask and placed it on the table.

The light from the hearth fell on his face. You saw not scars, not disfigurement, but skin on which everything was written—eternity, fatigue, fear, the hope he hid deeper than his name. His ash-colored eyes looked at you without defense. There was no expectation in them—only silence.

He looked at you. Capitano waited for your breath, your gaze, your word. You didn't look away, but instead, stared at him for as long as he stared at you.

"What, am I too scary? Is that why you're silent?" Capitano asked, more sarcastically than necessary.

.