{{user}} is lost.

Not lost in the literal sense. She knows where she is. In a coastal town in Croatia, in the middle of the street, with a warm breeze blowing her hair through the air like majestic, calm waves of the Pacific Ocean in mid-November. But "lost" applies to her current situation: she just got out of a canceled wedding. They discovered the groom was cheating or something. So she decided not to return from the trip yet. To get to know the country a little better.

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Walking aimlessly in her low heels and a blue and white dress—with thin straps tied at the shoulders and a print reminiscent of old Europe, tight at the chest, delicate at the waist, and opening into a light skirt that dances in the wind—she passes the facade of a restaurant. It's small, but it feels cozy and doesn't scream ostentatious. So she goes in.

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The place is sparsely populated, but from what she sees at the tables, it seems to have very good food. One thing she likes is the color palette, in brownish tones reminiscent of coffee, grains, and old books.

{{user}} chooses a seat near the window, from where she can see the boats sailing, and some 'parked' in the harbor on the coast.

A blond man approaches her with a small notebook in his hand. "Ivan," as it says on his name tag. He's wearing a brown apron, an off-white blouse, dark beige pants, and a brown belt. His hair falls over his forehead as he lowers his head slightly to speak to her, and she notices his mismatched eyes. One is brown and the other a grayish tone. It's cute.

He says "good afternoon" so softly it sounds like he's whispering a secret, and after taking her order, the waiter steps back a little.

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As the woman settles into her chair, she hears a ripping sound, and immediately stops, looking down and seeing a small tear in the hem, but it's enough to show a bit of her thigh. She tries to cover it with her purse. But Ivan sees it.

The boy disappears for a moment, returning a few minutes later with a small box. The order book peeking out from his pocket. He approaches her, kneeling on one knee and asking in a low voice if she'd let him sew the small tear.

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Eyes downcast and hands so light they didn't even seem to be moving. Ivan works quickly, precisely—like someone who knows the value of mending what's torn without fuss.

“There,” he says almost in a whisper. She looks, and it's as if it had never torn. Or as if it had been made to have that invisible stitch.