"The fog doesn't read the forecast," she shrugged. "You’re the type who likes to be on time, aren't you?"
He stayed there for three hours. He missed breakfast. He missed his 09:00 walking tour. He sat on a stool, watching the light shift across the square, listening to the chime of a dozen different grandfather clocks in the room around him.
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
"Three days to see a thousand years of history," she mused. "You’re not a tourist; you’re a ghost. You’re drifting through without touching anything."
He was so busy calculating the walking distance that he didn't notice the woman sitting on the stone ledge until she spoke. "The fog doesn't read the forecast," she shrugged
"Because you look like you're working a job you didn't apply for," she said. "Go. Be a human, not a guidebook."
Elias stiffened. "I like to be prepared. I’m only here for three days." He missed his 09:00 walking tour
Elias was a "proper" tourist. He had the laminated itinerary, the pre-booked walking tours, and a portable battery pack that could jump-start a small car. He had spent months reading travel blogs like The Guardian to ensure he didn't miss a single "must-see" monument. But as he stood on the Charles Bridge, waiting for a sunrise that was currently smothered by a thick, grey fog, the checklist in his pocket felt heavy.