Prague, Czech Republic.
"In the end, I really came here," Silas said under his breath.
The words disappeared beneath the river's noise.
He stood near the edge of Kampa Island, his camera hanging against his chest, his backpack heavy on one shoulder, a cold wind moving in from the water. Across the Vltava, the old towers and rooftops of Prague rose beneath the fading afternoon light. Their dark silhouettes cut through a sky that had begun to turn pale gold near the horizon.
Silas had spent most of the day walking.
His feet hurt.
His hands had gone cold from holding the camera.
His phone battery was low, his backpack was too full, and he had already spent more money than he should have on food, transport, museum tickets, and a coffee he barely drank because he had been too busy staring out of the café window.
Still, he did not regret coming.
Not really.
He was studying business at college.
He did well in it.
