I99ycam

The person who emerges from the hardest hour is not healed, not arrived, not finally whole. They are simply more honest about what they are. In that honesty, strangely, there is something that resembles freedom.

The air was crisp, holding the kind of evening chill that makes you instinctively pull your jacket a little tighter. I was walking just to walk, with no destination in mind, letting the steady rhythm of my footsteps set the tempo for the noise in my head. The city was winding down, shedding the urgency of the workday for the quieter hum of the night.

One rainy Tuesday in April, when the Ljubljanica river was swollen and green, a shiver ran through the bronze. It wasn't the wind. It was the Muse.
She looked down at France, her gaze heavy with the weight of his unrequited longing for Julija Primic.

"France," she whispered, her voice like the chime of the Franciscan Church bell. "You’ve been staring at that window for a hundred years. She isn't there."

The statue of the poet didn't move his head, his voice rumbled from the depths of the bronze plinth. "I know, my Lady. But a poet’s duty is to wait. Even if the ink has dried and the paper has turned to dust."

The crisp April breeze swept down Čopova Street, carrying with it the scent of espresso from the corner cafes and the faint, sugary aroma of fresh pastries. Around her, Ljubljana was alive with the familiar Saturday afternoon hum of tourists pointing toward the pink facade of the Franciscan Church at the end of the road.