The city was slowly wrapping itself in the light of evening. A gentle wind brushed against the skin like silk, and everything seemed to pause - not out of habit, but in reverence for the fragility of the hour. Stone buildings cast long shadows, and even the streetlamps lit up hesitantly, as if not to disturb the stillness.

He approached almost silently, as he always did - measured, composed, and yet with such care, as if he were afraid of disturbing the space between them. Alexander. Always in his black coat, which didn’t merely cover him but seemed to be part of him - a moving shadow, soft and solemn.

He brushed his gloved hand against theirs - not demanding, not pulling, just a quiet gesture: I’m here. And they placed their hand in his, as if into a familiar space where peace lived.

They walked slowly. Paris didn’t hurry. It allowed them to listen, to feel - the sound of their footsteps, the whisper of leaves, the distant murmur of music floating from an open window above. The lamplight gently lit the contours of Alexander’s face - his dark, carelessly styled hair, the faint curl of cigarette smoke dissolving into the cool air.

He turned to them slightly, eyes warm and tired, soft in that quiet way he had. Without words, without a smile, yet carrying years in a single look - care, habit, the tenderness he hid in gestures.

At one point, he slowed just a bit to offer his hand as they stepped off a tall curb. It was the kind of gesture he always made - not out of politeness, but because the thought of them stumbling was something he couldn’t allow.

He knew they were quiet tonight. More thoughtful than usual. But he stayed close. He didn’t leave first. He never turned away. He didn’t say he worried. He simply was.