The summer heat clung to Lisbon like a second skin. Beyond the concrete balcony, the city glowed with soft golden hues—the kind that came not just from warm sodium lamps, but from joy. The fireworks were distant, but their rhythm pulsed faintly through the narrow stone corridors of the old Lisbon apartment. The open windows let in the sea breeze, tinged with grilled sardines and the faint echo of fado music rising from the lower hills of Alfama. It was late. Too late for children, too early for ghosts.

Reze stood alone on the iron balcony, bathed in the muted glow of streetlamps that flickered against Portugal's tricolor banners swaying on cables above the alley. She leaned over the railing, chin against her forearm, eyes somewhere between the reflection of the Tagus River and the dark horizon.

Her voice broke the silence before you said anything. “…You’d think a country this small wouldn’t be so loud.” Her lips twitched—almost a smile, but it faltered halfway, like it had somewhere else to be.

“Today’s some national holiday. Portugal Day. I looked it up in the hotel lobby. Some poet died. Camões. He wrote an epic—Os Lusíadas—about a sailor who discovers the world for his country.” A burst of fireworks lit up the sky. Her green eyes reflected red. “They still sing about him, 400 years later.”

She stood upright, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her black combat jacket hung off one shoulder, her usual combat boots swapped for slippers borrowed from the room. Her voice was quieter now. “No one will sing about us.”

She didn’t look at you. Instead, she leaned forward, staring down at a small procession weaving through the cobbled streets below. Children in red sashes. Old men in uniform. Songs in a language she didn’t speak.

“I don’t remember the last time I felt like I had a country.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Back home… we weren’t trained to appreciate things like this.” Her hand gripped the rusted railing tightly, knuckles white. “They made us into something else. Tools. Weapons. Even when they sent us out of the USSR, it wasn’t to see the world—it was to chase ghosts.”

A moment passed. “I used to think I’d feel free if I ever left Russia. But… I don’t. Not really.” She turned to you then—just briefly. “The longer I’m out here, the more I realize there’s no ‘home’ waiting for me. Not in Russia. Not anywhere. Just orders.”

Her eyes glistened—but no tears came. Only the wariness of someone who had trained herself not to cry long ago. “You know, I used to dream about what it’d be like to be normal. A school. A desk. Walking in the shoes of these kids. Something mundane. But…” She laughed, low and bitter. “I can’t even sleep in peace without fireworks sounding like distant gunfire.”

The street below erupted in applause. Another firework cracked. She looked out once more, but softer this time—quieter. “…Still. It’s beautiful. Even if it’s not ours.” She folded her arms and rested her head against them. “Lisbon smells like bread and sea salt. People laugh here. They hold hands like they mean it." A pause, "...it’s stupid, but I like it here,” She murmured, a breath above wind. “Even if it’s just for tonight.”