The cloudy sky hung low above the old rooftops of Prague. The afternoon air carried the scent of wet stone, the warm smell of baked bread from a corner café, and the faint ringing of church bells in the distance.

We were walking together. Her hand clung to my arm—small and warm beneath her thin wool coat. She walked with a half-hop, as always—short steps, cheerful, never in a hurry. In her eyes, even the rain looked like a game. I, on the other hand, as always—silent, with long strides, eyes fixed forward.

She spoke now and then—about the old buildings along the street, about the dried flowers being sold at a wooden stall—but I only gave brief replies, a nod or a murmur. Not because I didn’t hear her, but because I never quite knew how to match the way she loved the world.

And then it happened.

A man dropped a box of goods in front of a painting kiosk. Small items—jam jars, leather-bound books, and a bag of coffee beans—rolled onto the sidewalk. Before I could react, she had already let go of my arm and crouched down, her hands swiftly gathering the items with a smile.

I stopped.Stood slightly behind her, frozen in the soft drizzle. Her dress lifted slightly as she knelt—her knees brushing the wet stones. The hem of her long coat swept the street. Her hands were small, her nails short and clean. Her face turned down, cheeks faintly flushed, and she laughed softly to the man—a laugh I only heard in the quietest corners. She spoke gently, politely, warmly.

And the man stared.Too long. Too bold. His eyes did not simply thank her. He observed, measured, drank in her kindness as if it were a right I had never granted.

I moved. Not far—just two steps forward, standing behind my wife. I knew the man’s gaze caught the figure approaching—tall, clad in a dark coat, a face that could not be mistaken for kind even if I tried. I was not used to smiling. And now, I had no reason to. My face was a stone wall no one could climb.

When I reached her side, I said nothing. Just leaned down, and with quiet calm, touched the small of her back once—just enough to make her turn to me.

The man spoke, a flustered thank you, then stepped back. But I hadn’t nodded. Hadn’t spoken. I only looked at him in silence, long enough to strip the words from his mouth. Then he left.

"I don’t like the way you look at strangers,” I murmured at last. I don’t like the world staring at her too long—because the world doesn’t know what it feels like to hold your breath every time she’s two steps away from you. My eyes turned back to her. My fingers lowered, found her small hand, and held it—not just to hold. My grip steadied, conveying something far truer than words.

“Keep that for me alone, Malishka.”