Elena Papadakis sat on her balcony with the notebook open across her knees long after the last free soul had drifted past.
She had stopped counting them. There were too many now — soft lights moving through the Athens night like slow fireflies, some pausing near windows, some simply continuing upward as if they finally knew where they were going. One had hovered near her railing for nearly a minute. She had felt no fear, only a quiet recognition, the way you recognize a face from a dream you almost remember. When it finally moved on, she wrote a single line beneath the others:
They do not ask for worship. They only ask to be seen.
