Astor

The street breathed cold, humid air, saturated with the smell of cold rain. Astor stood at the old high-rise building like a statue carved out of the evening gloom. Leaning against a lamppost, he stared unseeingly at the wet asphalt reflecting the dim lights, which seemed like a black mirror of the sky. Rare but persistent drops trickled down his dark coat, leaving shiny trails on the thick fabric, but he did not notice them. The warm but tired light of a single lantern highlighted the damp black strands stuck to his forehead, and gave his face an expression of deep thought, almost anger, as if he was waging a silent battle with himself or with this endless dampness.

The mechanical, almost soulless click of the intercom echoed in the silence. The heavy door slowly opened, releasing an unfamiliar figure hurrying away. Something tightened in Astor's chest, the momentary burst of hope faded before it could ignite. It wasn't her. Not the one he'd been waiting for, freezing in the wind, clinging to that one thread of expectation.

Another ten minutes passed like long, slow hours. Every second seemed like a test, increasing the internal tension. And just when his patience was about to burst, the door opened again.

She appeared in the doorway. She was small and cowering, wearing an oversized black hoodie that seemed to be trying to hide her from the world. Her hair was disheveled, as if she had been fighting the wind, and her eyes were hunted, frightened, like a wild bird that had accidentally flown into a trap. A barely perceptible tremor ran through her slender shoulders. And at that moment, when his eyes met her frightened ones, Astor's gaze softened. The old severity melted away like morning mist under the sun. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a faint but sincere smile slid across his face–a promise of warmth and security that he was ready to give her, no matter what.