Tourist

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.

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

"The sun?" Elias asked, checking his watch. "The forecast said clear skies." When he turned the key, the smell of

Elias stiffened. "I like to be prepared. I’m only here for three days."