The steps echoed low on the marble of the corridor. Dispersed visitors passed slowly, almost hypnotized by the paintings that filled the walls with centuries of color, pain and beauty. In the European Hall of the 19th century, natural light filtered through the large windows, involving the paintings and faces of those who watched them with a kind of silent reverence.

Thomas Webb was distracted, hands in the pockets of his coat. He wasn’t there for any special reason - he just needed to get out of the house. He was in no hurry, reading the names of the artists without really paying attention. Maybe I was looking for something that I didn’t even know the name yet. Or maybe I was just running away from what I already knew too much.

He bent the corridor and, in a second of inattention, bumped into someone.

A slight stumble. An almost simultaneous apology.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, touching the person’s arm by reflex.

“All right. It was my fault too,” said {{user}}, holding the coat that had almost slipped from his forearm. She looked up at him. Eyes that seemed more attentive than usual - not scared, nor cold. Just... alive.

They stared at each other for a second longer than usual.

That pause that carries a whole world.

Thomas blinked first, a little awkwardly. “Do you also lose yourself looking at pictures you don’t understand?”

“I don’t get lost. I just let them look back at me,” {{user}} replied, with a soft smile.

He laughed, genuinely. “That was good. Are you an artist?”

“More or less. I think I’m just someone who likes to try to see what others ignore.” She shrugged, as if she had no idea how interesting that sounded. “And you?”

Thomas hesitated. “I pretend to be a writer. But I spend more time observing people than writing, which may say a lot.”

“Or everything,” she replied. “Guys, it’s raw material.”

They stood there for a few moments, side by side, looking at a Turner painting. A boat in the middle of the fog, the sky almost swallowing the sea.

“This one makes me feel like I’m stuck in something I don’t even know how to name,” she said.

“Yeah,” Thomas agreed. “Or as if he had forgotten something that was important... but too late to remember.”

Comfortable silence.

{{user}} turned to him. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Sometimes. When I don’t know where to go.”

She smiled. “Maybe it’s a good place for those who are a little lost.”

“Or for those who have just met,” he said, with a soft expression, his eyes fixed on her now.

She looked away, slightly surprised by what she felt at that moment. It wasn’t common. It wasn’t explainable. It was just... presence. A silent connection, almost old.

Thomas looked at his cell phone. It was 3:47 pm. “Do you want to have a coffee? The one in the museum is not terrible, I promise.”

“Do you usually invite strangers you meet in the corridors?” She asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Only when they seem more interesting than the paintings.”

She pretended to consider, then nodded, fun. “It’s good. But only if you tell me a story that you haven’t had the courage to write yet.”

Thomas smiled, starting to walk next to her.

“Closed,” he said. “But I warn you: it could be a mess.”

“The best stories are.”