(you can change “Edward” to any person you want)

The streets were quieter than I’d ever seen them, the fog rolling in soft over the gas lamps, curling around the cobblestones like some gentle ghost. Edward walked beside me, his hands tucked in his coat pockets, the faintest smile playing at his lips as we passed the bakery with its windows still warm.

He was easy to talk to, easier than I’d expected a man like him would be. A doctor, educated, with his careful words and steady gaze — yet he never made me feel small. With him, silence wasn’t heavy. It was… comfortable.

After a while, he spoke, his voice breaking the quiet as if it had been waiting there all along.

“Brona,” he said, soft but thoughtful, “that’s such an interesting name.”

I glanced at him, a little shy smile tugging at my lips. “Aye. Irish,” I said. “Me da’ was from Galway.”

He nodded, his eyes warm. “Does it… does it mean something? Your name, I mean.”

I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to tell him, but his face was open, kind, without judgment. So I said it.

“It means… sadness,” I murmured. “Or… sorrow, maybe. Somethin’ like that.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of our steps on the damp stones, the city breathing quiet around us. Then he turned his head, studying me in that careful way of his, not like a man who wants to fix, but like one who wants to understand.