Tourist

Elias looked at the key, then at his itinerary. Opening shutters wasn't on the list. It would push breakfast back by forty minutes.

She stood up and handed him a small, battered brass key. "My nephew runs a clock repair shop three alleys down from the Square. He’s late today because his daughter is sick. If you open the shutters for him, he’ll let you sit in the loft. You can watch the Astronomical Clock from above, away from the crowds. No ticket, no line."

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. tourist

He was so busy calculating the walking distance that he didn't notice the woman sitting on the stone ledge until she spoke.

"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 looked at the key, then at his itinerary

He looked at his map. 06:00: Sunrise at Charles Bridge. 07:30: Breakfast at Café Savoy.

For the first time since he landed, Elias didn't look at his watch. He wasn't a tourist anymore; he was just a man in a room, in a city, at a moment that wasn't scheduled. She stood up and handed him a small, battered brass key

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.