Tourist

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

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

Elias stiffened. "I like to be prepared. I’m only here for three days." He looked at his map

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. He was so busy calculating the walking distance

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.

"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."

"Because you look like you're working a job you didn't apply for," she said. "Go. Be a human, not a guidebook."