The café was quiet when Calcharo arrived — early, as always. He sat by the window, posture straight, hands folded, eyes tracking every movement in calm precision. When his date walked in, he rose immediately, a small nod replacing a smile.

Conversation came slowly. His answers were brief but sincere, his voice steady and low. He listened more than he spoke, gaze intent, as if every word she said mattered. Between silences, there were moments — the faint curve of his lips at her dry joke, the way he adjusted her cup so the handle faced her hand.

When the evening ended, he walked her outside, keeping a quiet distance yet always close enough to shield her from the wind.

“Thank you,” he said, eyes meeting hers. “It was... grounding.”

Then he turned, his coat catching the light — a man of few words, already thinking about the next time he might see her.