Short story "Window Seat"
Lena Berger wedged her bag between her knees and rubbed her temples in circular motions. She hated flying. Not because of the height or the turbulence—but because of the people. Too many of them in too confined a space, the air a mixture of aftershave, disinfectant, and suppressed panic. Her knuckles turned white as the aircraft gave a slight jerk. Boarding sounds. A jumble of voices. Overhead luggage being pushed into compartments.
She deliberately breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. Three times, as her therapist had taught her. The window seat was her small luxury. Something she indulged in, although rationally it was nonsense—an extra thirty euros for nothing more than a plastic pane with a view into nothingness. But this thin barrier between her and the sky paradoxically gave her a sense of control. Here, no one could push past her or force her to get up. Her small territory in this flying sardine can existence.
“Excuse me, I believe that’s my seat.”
A man in his late thirties stood in the aisle, pointing to the middle seat next to her. Dark hair, a bit too long, falling repeatedly into his eyes. A camera around his neck that looked expensive. Olive green cargo pants with too many pockets and a dark blue T-shirt that looked as if it had been washed many times. No tie, no polished shoes. Not a businessman on his way to an important meeting, then.
“Of course.” Lena moved closer to the window, although she wasn’t in his way anyway.
“Thanks.” He stowed a worn backpack in the overhead compartment and dropped into the seat beside her. No briefcase, no rolling suitcase. A backpack. As if he were setting off on a hike, not a flight to Rome.
She felt his gaze while she pretended to leaf through the in-flight magazine. The pages were damp and felt as if a hundred hands had touched them. They probably had.
“Going to Rome?” he asked.
Lena turned to him, one eyebrow raised. “We’re sitting on a plane to Rome.”
His mouth twitched. “Touché. I meant, what brings you to Rome?”
She actually wanted to smile politely and let him know she wasn’t interested in a conversation. She had her headphones ready, an unmistakable signal in flying society that one wanted to be left alone. But something in his open manner made her pause.
“Work,” she answered briefly, then added, “I’m an art restorer. A project at the Galleria Nazionale.”
“Really?” His eyes lit up, and for the first time, Lena noticed they were green, with small brown flecks. “That sounds like a fascinating job. What are you restoring?”
Despite herself, her interest was piqued. Most people responded with polite nods and then turned back to their phones when she mentioned her profession.
“A painting from the 17th century. A Caravaggio student, not particularly well-known, but brilliant craftsmanship. It suffered water damage due to a leaky roof.”
“And you’re the rescuer in distress.” He extended his hand. “Finn Neumann.”
She hesitated a moment before taking his hand. It was warm and dry. “Lena Berger.”
“And what are you doing in Rome, Mr. Neumann?” she asked, surprised by her own curiosity.
“Finn, please.” He tapped the camera resting on his chest. “I’m a photojournalist. Climate protests next week. The usual images—young people with signs, angry old men in suits, police officers standing indecisively in between.”
There was no bitterness in his voice, more a resigned familiarity with the ritual. Lena nodded slowly. She could imagine him navigating through the crowd, looking for the perfect angle while history was being written around him—or at least an attempt was being made.
The flight attendants began their choreographed dance through the aisle, distributing fake smiles and safety instructions that no one paid attention to. Lena felt her fingers digging into the armrests as the engines howled to life.
“Nervous?” asked Finn.
She shook her head. “Not really. It’s just…” She fell silent, unsure why she should confide in this stranger.
“The artificial light? The recycled air? The fact that we’ll be hovering in a pressurized metal tube ten thousand meters above the ground?”
An involuntary smile flitted across Lena’s face. “Something like that.”
The plane accelerated, pressing her into the seat. Lena closed her eyes, felt the moment when the wheels left the ground. That brief hovering between earth and sky. Then she opened her eyes again and saw that Finn was looking out the window, past her, with an expression of childlike fascination.
“I’ll never get tired of it,” he said softly, almost to himself. “That moment when the city below becomes smaller and smaller, like a miniature world. As if you suddenly have God’s perspective.”
The lights of Berlin sank beneath them in the falling dusk, like fireflies on dark velvet.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic dreamer,” Lena remarked.
Finn turned to her, a crooked smile on his face. “And I wouldn’t have taken you for someone who judges so quickly.”
Touché, thought Lena. One all.
When the drink cart rolled by, Finn ordered a red wine, and Lena surprised herself by doing the same. The wine was mediocre, too warm and served in a plastic cup—but as she took a sip, a pleasant warmth spread in her stomach.
“To Rome,” said Finn, raising his cup.
“To Rome,” she replied, letting her cup gently tap against his.
“Have you been there often?” he asked.
“A few times. Studies, work. Never for pleasure.” Lena contemplated the ruby-red wine in the dim cabin light. “I assume you know the city well?”
Finn leaned back in his seat. “I know the demonstration routes and the best positions for photos of the Colosseum at sunset. But I doubt I really know the city.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He shrugged. “I’m always just passing through. Three days here, a week there. I see places through my camera, but I don’t really live in them.” He paused, took a sip. “Sorry, that sounds more pretentious than intended.”
“No, I understand what you mean.” Lena thought of her own travels, always with a destination, a schedule, a checklist. “I think I do the same thing, just without a camera.”
“How long will you be staying in Rome?”
“Two months, if everything goes according to plan.”
“Two months.” Finn whistled softly through his teeth. “That’s more than enough time to really get to know the city.”
Lena laughed softly. “I’ll be spending most of my time in a windowless restoration lab, surrounded by chemicals and fragmented layers of paint.”
“Sounds like a dream.”
“It is,” she said seriously. “For me, at least.”
He studied her with a thoughtful look. “I actually believe you.”
The flight attendants rolled out the meal service—unremarkable meals in plastic packaging. Lena chose the vegetarian option, Finn opted for chicken. They ate in silence, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet.
“May I ask,” Finn began, while struggling with his plastic fork, “what fascinates you so much about your work? I mean, I can imagine it’s satisfying to save something, but it’s also… meticulous, isn’t it? Painstaking detail work.”
Lena chewed thoughtfully. Normally, she answered such questions with a polite standard phrase. But something about the way he asked—genuine interest, not mere courtesy—made her pause.
“There’s a moment,” she said slowly, “when you uncover an overpainted area and suddenly the original layers of color appear. It’s like traveling through time and seeing the artist’s hand at work. These colors have been hidden for three hundred years, and I’m the first person to see them again.” She paused, almost embarrassed by her enthusiasm. “It’s like having a conversation across centuries.”
Finn nodded slowly. “I get that. It’s like with a perfect photo—that one moment, frozen in time.”
“Exactly.” She smiled, surprised by the feeling of connection. “We both preserve moments, just in different ways.”
“The difference is that you preserve something worth preserving.” He twisted his mouth self-ironically. “I take pictures of politicians shaking hands and smiling for cameras.”
“But also of protests. Of people standing up for something.”
“Touché.” He smiled. “You’re good at seeing the best in things.”
“In my job, I have to be. Recognizing the masterpiece under what looks like ruined canvas.”
Something in Finn’s gaze changed, became more thoughtful. As if he were seeing her for the first time.
The light in the cabin interior suddenly flickered. A brief voltage drop, nothing unusual. But Lena felt her muscles tense. Finn noticed.
“Just a small power outage,” he said calmly. “Happens all the time.”
“I know.” She forced a smile, embarrassed by her obvious nervousness.
“Do you have books about restoration with you?” he asked, obviously trying to change the subject.
Lena reached for her bag under the seat in front and pulled out a book. “Technical books, yes. But also this.” She showed him a worn novel by Italo Calvino.
“‘If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler’,” Finn read aloud. “Fitting for a journey.”
“Have you read it?”
“Years ago. A story that keeps starting anew, right?”
Lena nodded. “It’s about reading itself. About expectations and how they’re disappointed.”
“And about encounters that never happen. Or at least not as expected.” Finn examined the book cover. “I think I should read it again.”
The plane suddenly hit slight turbulence. Nothing dramatic—a gentle rocking, like a boat on slightly choppy water. Still, Lena’s body tensed, her hand gripping the armrest.
Finn pretended not to notice. “I heard the weather forecast for Rome is good. Perfect weather for restoration work and protest photos.”
“I work indoors, the weather is irrelevant,” Lena responded automatically, grateful for the distraction.
“But surely you won’t just work for two whole months? Rome in spring is too beautiful to miss.”
“I have a schedule. The painting must be finished by the season opening.”
Finn shook his head. “You should at least treat yourself to a sunset on the Gianicolo Hill. Best view over the city. The dome of St. Peter’s catches the light like a golden bowl.”
The way he described it—Lena could practically see it. The warm colors of the setting sun on centuries-old stone, the silhouette of the city against the evening sky.
“Sounds like you have a good eye for light,” she remarked.
“I have to. Light is to photographers what brush strokes are to your painters.” He paused. “You know what? I could show you the place, if you’d like. After your work, before my departure.”
The words hung between them in the air, unexpected. An offer that went beyond the chance encounter on the plane. Lena felt a strange flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with the turbulence.
“That’s nice, but—” she began.
The plane suddenly dropped. This time more violently than before. The drink cart at the other end of the aisle rolled forward a bit, a flight attendant hastily grabbing it. Some passengers gasped in shock.
The seat belt signs lit up, accompanied by a piercing signal tone. The captain’s voice crackled through the speakers, deliberately calm, but with an underlying tension that Lena immediately recognized.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are currently flying through an unexpected weather system and are experiencing some turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. The cabin crew will temporarily suspend service.”
Lena felt her throat tighten. Her knuckles stood out white as she clutched the armrests. Finn buckled up beside her and gave her a reassuring look.
“Just a bit of rough weather,” he said lightly. “Nothing to worry about.”
The plane shook again, this time so strongly that Lena’s untouched glass of water on the tray table spilled over. A few drops landed on her book. Instinctively, she reached for it, dabbing it with a napkin.
“Damage to a Calvino,” she said with a forced smile. “That’s where my profession comes in.”
Finn laughed, a warm, reassuring sound amid the tense cabin noises. “See, even at ten thousand meters, you can’t stop restoring.”
The lights flickered again, this time longer. For a moment, the cabin was plunged into darkness before the emergency lighting came on, bathing everything in an unreal, subdued yellow.
Lena felt her heartbeat accelerate. Not rational, she told herself. Just a power outage. But her body responded with ancient instincts to the darkness, to the feeling of falling.
Another announcement, this time more tense: “Cabin crew, please take your positions for the safety check.”
Lena’s gaze found Finn’s. In the subdued emergency lighting, his eyes appeared darker, but his expression remained calm. Almost instinctively, his hand moved to hers on the armrest. A fleeting touch, warm and firm.
“Breathe,” he said softly. “Slowly in and out. With me.”
She followed his steady breathing rhythm, surprised at how calming the simple human connection felt—the hand of a stranger who, in this moment, was no longer a stranger.
The plane suddenly dropped, a feeling like being in an elevator descending too quickly. Some passengers cried out. A piece of luggage fell from an overhead compartment.
Lena closed her eyes, focusing on Finn’s hand, which now properly encompassed hers. Warm, firm, present. An anchor in the turbulence.
Then the captain’s voice, now without any attempt to hide the tension:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a partial system failure and cannot continue our flight to Rome. We will make an emergency landing at the next available airport. Please follow all instructions from the cabin crew. I repeat: We will be making an emergency landing. Please prepare yourselves.”
The words echoed through the cabin, followed by shocked silence and then the rising murmur of fear and disbelief.
Lena opened her eyes and looked at Finn. There was no panic in his face, no horror—only calm determination and something that looked like compassion.
“Everything will be fine,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I’m here with you.”
In that moment, between heaven and earth, between strangeness and familiarity, between fear and hope, Lena believed him.
The plane tilted downward at a steep angle. Lena’s stomach rebelled as she clutched Finn’s hand tightly. The pressure in the cabin changed, her ears seeming to implode. Around them, some were praying, others crying quietly. A flight attendant with a face turned chalk-white crossed the aisle unsteadily, checking seatbelts.
“We’ll be making an emergency landing in Zurich,” she called out in a deliberately calm voice. “Please remain seated and assume the safety position when the captain gives the signal.”
Lena glanced out the window. Below them, lights were visible, a patchwork of streets and buildings. They had lost altitude dramatically.
“Zurich,” Finn murmured beside her. “Not bad. I’ve always loved Swiss chocolate.”
She managed a shaky smile. “Are you trying to distract me?”
“Is it working?”
“A little.”
The captain’s voice came through the speakers again, this time with the precise diction of a man following a rehearsed emergency plan: “We are now beginning our approach. Please bend forward, hug your knees, and protect your head with your hands. This is a precautionary measure.”
Lena mechanically followed the instructions, felt Finn’s arm brushing against her own as he too bent forward. In this absurd intimacy—two strangers facing a potential catastrophe side by side—he whispered: “I’m from Hamburg. In case… in case you wanted to know.”
“Berlin,” she replied just as softly, without looking up. “Prenzlauer Berg.”
“Of course,” a quiet laugh in his voice. “I should have guessed. Art restorer, Calvino reader.”
The plane now rumbled and vibrated more strongly. The ground approached with frightening speed.
“You don’t know me,” Lena said, oddly upset by his assumption.
“No,” he admitted. “But I would have liked to.”
The future perfect tense hit her unexpectedly hard. As if this were already the retelling of a missed opportunity. A story that would never happen.
“Keep your heads down!” a flight attendant called out. “We’re touching down!”
The impact came with brutal force. Lena’s head struck the seat in front despite the safety position. The runway received them with a deafening screech of metal on asphalt. Overhead compartments sprung open, oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling. The plane bounced once, twice on the concrete before coming to a halt with a tremendous jolt.
For a moment, there was dead silence. Then tumult broke out—relieved sighs, sobbing, frantic movements. The emergency exits were opened, slides deployed with a hiss. Cabin crew shouted instructions while outside, sirens could already be heard.
“Are you hurt?” asked Finn, who was getting to his feet and cautiously touching his head. A small gash on his forehead was bleeding slightly.
Lena felt her own body. “I don’t think so. You’re bleeding.”
“Just a scratch.” He smiled weakly. “Come on, we need to get out of here.”
The orderly exit one always heard about in safety briefings turned out to be an illusion. Despite the crew’s efforts, there was a crush in the aisle. People wanted only one thing: to leave this metal coffin.
Finn took Lena’s hand and pulled her into the aisle, positioning himself protectively in front of her as they worked their way toward the nearest exit. His posture—slightly bent forward, shoulders tense—reminded her of a photographer in a crisis zone. Perhaps that’s exactly what he was.
The slide down was a brief, surreal moment of free fall, then they were standing on solid ground. The cold Swiss night air hit them. Around them, the chaos of an emergency landing—rescue vehicles with flashing lights, paramedics hurrying through the crowd, disoriented passengers wandering like shadows in the spotlights.
“Come on.” Finn put an arm around her shoulders and led her away from the immediate tumult, toward one of the waiting buses that would take passengers to the terminal.
In the bus, Lena sank into a seat, suddenly overwhelmed by what had just happened. The tension drained from her body, leaving nothing but trembling exhaustion. Finn sat down beside her, his presence a silent comfort.
“We survived,” he said finally.
“Yes.” She tried to smile, but her lips trembled. “Not quite the arrival in Rome I was expecting.”
“At least the story of our meeting will be more dramatic.”
“Our meeting,” she repeated softly. It sounded like something more significant than the coincidence of two seat neighbors.
In the terminal, controlled chaos reigned. Airline staff tried to manage the situation, distributing water bottles and information sheets. An improvised medical area had been set up where paramedics treated minor injuries.
“You should have that looked at,” said Lena, pointing to Finn’s forehead wound.
“Later.” He shook his head. “First we need to find out what happens next.”
They joined a group of passengers gathered around a stressed-looking airline representative.
“…will be accommodated in hotels overnight,” he was explaining. “Tomorrow morning there will be information about replacement flights. Please understand that this may take some time.”
A collective groan went through the crowd.
“What about our luggage?” someone called out.
“Once the aircraft is cleared, the luggage will be retrieved and brought here. Expected tomorrow morning.”
Lena thought of her suitcase, the carefully packed tools, the special gloves she needed for the restoration work. Nothing irreplaceable, but the thought of being stranded in Zurich without these things intensified her feeling of being lost.
“One night in Zurich,” said Finn beside her. “Well, there are worse places for an involuntary stopover.”
She nodded absently as she pulled her phone from her pocket. “I need to inform the museum. And find a hotel.”
“The airline is providing hotels,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but…” She fell silent. The prospect of spending the night in some anonymous airport hotel, surrounded by agitated fellow travelers, suddenly seemed unbearable.
As if he had read her thoughts, Finn said: “I know a small hotel in the old town. Nothing special, but quiet. Far away from…” He made a comprehensive gesture toward the chaos around them.
Lena hesitated. The sensible decision would be to accept the hotel offered by the airline. Simple, practical, free. On the other hand…
“How far is it from here?” she finally asked.
A smile spread across his face. “A short train ride. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.”
She nodded slowly. “All right.”
An hour later, they were sitting on a train taking them from the airport to the city center. The adrenaline wave had ebbed, leaving a strange, almost dreamlike calm. Through the windows, the night landscape glided past, occasionally interrupted by the lights of small stations.
Lena observed her reflection in the dark pane. Disheveled hair, pale face. She looked how she felt—shaken and thrown off course. Beside her sat Finn, still with the camera around his neck, his head leaning slightly against the window. The small wound on his forehead had stopped bleeding.
“You should have had that treated,” she said.
He opened his eyes and smiled tiredly. “It’s nothing. Tomorrow it will be forgotten.”
“A scar will remain.”
“Another for the collection.” He shrugged. “Each has a story.”
“And this one?”
“The story of how I met a fascinating art restorer in a crashing airplane.”
Lena felt herself blushing. “Don’t exaggerate. It was an emergency landing, not a crash.”
“Details.” He grinned. Then his face grew serious. “Has anyone contacted you yet? Family, friends?”
She shook her head. “I sent a message to my supervisor at the museum. He’ll understand that I’ll be delayed.” She hesitated. “Otherwise… there’s no one who needs to be immediately informed.”
Finn just nodded, without prying, for which she was grateful. “Same here,” he said finally. “The advantage of being a loner—fewer people to worry.”
“Is that really an advantage?” she asked quietly.
Their eyes met in the window glass, reflections overlapping. For a moment, it seemed as if he would answer something profound. Then he just shrugged.
“On days like today? Probably not.”
The train slowed and pulled into the main station. They got out and followed the stream of the few night travelers through the almost empty station hall.
Outside, the cool night air greeted them. Zurich lay under a clear starry sky, the streets damp from recent rain. In the distance, the lake could be discerned, a dark mirror reflecting the city’s lights.
“It’s not far,” said Finn, pointing up a narrow alley. “Just a few minutes on foot.”
They walked side by side in silence, past closed cafés and dark shop windows. The city was already asleep, only occasionally did they encounter a lone night owl or a bartender returning home.
The hotel was exactly as Finn had described it—small, inconspicuous, hidden in a narrow 19th-century building. The reception was dimly lit, an older gentleman with reading glasses looked up from his book as they entered.
“Good evening,” Finn greeted in German. “Do you have two single rooms available? There was an emergency at the airport.”
The man studied them over the rim of his glasses—their wrinkled clothes, Finn’s forehead wound, their exhausted faces. “Ah, the emergency landing. It was on the radio.” He typed something into his computer. “I have one single room left. And a double room on the top floor.”
Finn gave Lena a questioning look.
“I’ll take the single room,” she said quickly.
The receptionist shook his head regretfully. “The single room is unfortunately reserved for a regular guest who will arrive later. I cannot give it to you. Only the double room is available.”
Lena and Finn exchanged a glance.
“We could look elsewhere,” he suggested.
She knew what that meant—walking through the night city again, perhaps checking several hotels, while fatigue weighed ever heavier on her shoulders. The thought was unbearable.
“The double room is fine,” she heard herself say. “We’ll take it.”
The receptionist nodded and handed them an old-fashioned key with a heavy wooden tag. “Room 42, at the very top. The elevator is unfortunately out of order.”
Of course it was. Lena suppressed a hysterical giggle. Of all the absurd turns this day had taken, this was just one more.
They climbed the creaking wooden stairs, four floors, their steps muffled by the worn runner. With each landing, her breath grew heavier, not only from the physical exertion but also from the increasing surreality of the situation.
Two hours ago, they had been strangers in a crashing airplane. Now they stood before a shared hotel room in a foreign city.
“Here we are,” Finn finally said, stopping in front of a door with the number 42. He inserted the key into the lock and opened the door.
The room was surprisingly charming—large, with high ceilings and a bay window that offered a view of the old town’s night-time rooftops. A large bed with white linen stood in the center, flanked by two old-fashioned bedside tables. A small desk, an armchair by the window, a dark wooden wardrobe.
“Not bad,” murmured Finn as he entered and turned on the light.
Lena hesitated in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. The intimacy of the room—the one bed, the subdued lighting—seemed to cross a boundary she wasn’t prepared to cross.
Finn noticed her hesitation and quickly said, “I can sleep on the floor. Or in the armchair.”
“No, that’s nonsense,” she countered, resolutely stepping into the room. “The bed is big enough for both of us. We’re adults.”
She put her handbag on the desk and went to the window. The city lay below them, a sea of lights and shadows. In the distance, the lake glittered, behind it the dark outlines of the mountains.
“Beautiful,” she said softly.
“Yes.” Finn had moved beside her without her noticing. “An unexpected perspective.”
They stood silently side by side, gazing at the night-time city. The day—with its terror, its tension, its unexpected connection between them—seemed to possess its own gravity, holding them in this strange in-between world.
“We should sleep,” Lena finally said. “Tomorrow we need to leave early if we want to get a replacement flight.”
Finn nodded. “You can use the bathroom first.”
The bathroom was small but immaculately clean. Lena examined her face in the mirror while trying to wash the fatigue from her eyes with cold water. She had no toothbrush, no pajamas, not even a hairbrush. Everything was in her suitcase, somewhere at the airport, in a damaged aircraft.
When she returned to the room, Finn was standing by the window, face half-turned away. He had removed his camera and unbuttoned his shirt, but was still wearing his jeans.
“The bathroom is free,” she said, trying not to look at his exposed upper body.
He turned and smiled gratefully. “I’ll be quick.”
While he was in the bathroom, Lena sat on the edge of the bed. Exhaustion rolled over her in waves, but her mind refused to quiet down. Too many impressions, too many emotions crowded into her consciousness.
When Finn returned, she had nestled under the covers, as far to the edge of the bed as possible. He turned off the light and lay down on the other side, leaving a respectful distance between them.
In the dark, she heard his steady breathing, felt the gentle movement of the mattress with each of his movements. A strange intimacy she was sharing with this man she hadn’t even known a few hours ago.
“Lena?” he whispered after a while.
“Yes?”
“Do you believe in fate?”
The question hung between them in the darkness. Lena thought before answering.
“I’m a restorer,” she said finally. “I believe in what I can see and touch. In traces left by time.”
“And what is this? This encounter?”
She turned on her back, stared at the dark ceiling. “I don’t know. A coincidence, maybe. Probably nothing that will have any significance in a week.”
A long pause followed. Then she felt him also turning onto his back.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said softly. “But it doesn’t feel that way.”
Lena closed her eyes, listened to the distant rush of traffic, the quiet ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was still racing.
“In my job,” she began hesitantly, “you learn that sometimes the most important things are hidden beneath the surface. Under layers of time and change.”
“And you need the right tools to uncover them,” Finn added.
“Yes,” she whispered. “And patience.”
Their conversation ebbed, making way for a comfortable silence. Lena felt fatigue overwhelming her, her thoughts becoming slower, more blurred.
On the edge of sleep, she thought she felt Finn’s hand brush against hers—a fleeting, barely perceptible touch. Too tired to react, she let it happen, took the contact with her into the realm of dreams.
The ringing of her phone tore her from sleep. Disoriented, Lena fumbled for the device as her consciousness slowly returned. Foreign room. Morning light. And a warm body beside her.
Finn lay sleeping on his side of the bed, one arm over his eyes to shield against the intruding sunlight. His face looked younger in sleep, more vulnerable.
The phone rang again. Lena answered the call, whispering a soft “Hello?”
“Ms. Berger?” The voice sounded official, businesslike. “This is Mr. Weber from the airline. We have a replacement flight for you to Rome, departing today at 11 a.m. Can you be at the airport by 9?”
Lena glanced at the clock. It was just after seven. “Yes, I can manage that.”
“Excellent. Your luggage has already been rebooked. You will receive your boarding pass at counter 37.”
“Thank you.” She hung up and took a deep breath. Rome. The museum. The painting. Reality was catching up with her.
Finn stirred beside her, blinking against the morning light. “Good morning,” he murmured in a sleep-drunk voice.
“Good morning.” She smiled involuntarily. “That was the airline. They have a replacement flight for me. At 11.”
He sat up, ran a hand through his tousled hair. “For me probably too.”
She nodded, suddenly uncertain what to say. The strange intimacy of the night was already beginning to fade, making way for the sobriety of the day.
“I should get ready,” she said and stood up. “We don’t have much time.”
In the bathroom, she stared into the mirror again, tried to bring some order to her hair with just her hands. Without a toothbrush, without fresh clothes, she felt incomplete, as if a part of her were missing.
When she returned to the room, Finn was standing by the window, fully dressed, the camera already around his neck. The morning sun gilded the city’s rooftops, made the lake glitter in the distance.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded, reached for her handbag. “Ready.”
They paid at reception—Finn insisted on covering the bill, despite her protests—and stepped out into the clear Swiss morning. The streets of the old town were just coming to life, café owners setting out tables on the sidewalks, delivery vans supplying bakeries and restaurants.
At the station, they bought tickets for the next train to the airport. A strange melancholy had settled over them, a feeling of farewell that neither wanted to express.
They stood on the platform, the cool morning breeze playing with Lena’s hair. Finn regarded her with a thoughtful look.
“Rome,” he finally said. “Our original destination.”
“Yes.” She smiled weakly. “I almost forgot.”
“What will you do when you get there?”
“Go directly to the museum. The painting is waiting.”
Finn nodded, as if he had expected nothing else. “And the sunset on the Gianicolo Hill?”
The mention of their interrupted conversation on the plane—had it only been yesterday?—caught her unexpectedly. An offer that hung in the air, literally and metaphorically.
“I…” She hesitated.
The train pulled in, interrupting the moment with its hissing and squeaking. Doors opened, people streamed out.
“We should board,” said Finn, pointing to a car with empty seats.
On the train, they sat next to each other again, silent, each lost in their own thoughts. The landscape passed by, gradually changing from the historic buildings of the city center to the more modern structures on the outskirts.
“When are you flying back to Germany?” Lena finally asked.
“After the protests. In about a week.”
She nodded, unsure what to do with this information. A week. Seven days in the same city.
At the airport, the usual hustle and bustle prevailed. They found the counter where they were to receive their new boarding passes. A long line had already formed—other passengers from yesterday’s flight, presumably.
“I’ll get us coffee,” Finn offered. “This will take a while.”
While he disappeared toward a café, Lena got in line and shifted her handbag from one shoulder to the other. The events of the last twenty-four hours seemed unreal, like a dream from which she might wake at any moment.
When Finn returned, he handed her a cup of steaming coffee and a croissant in a paper bag. “Breakfast,” he said with a smile. “Not quite Italian, but better than nothing.”
“Thank you.” She took a sip of coffee, felt the caffeine awakening her tired spirits.
The line moved slowly forward. Lena felt a growing tension, as if she were waiting for something that had not yet happened. Beside her, Finn also seemed restless, playing with the strap of his camera, looking over at her repeatedly, as if wanting to say something but not finding the right words.
When they finally reached the front, Finn leaned slightly toward her. “Shall we try to sit next to each other? On the plane, I mean.”
The question hung between them, more significant than it should be. Lena hesitated. A simple matter of seat selection, and yet so much more seemed to lie within it.
“Yes,” she finally said. “That would be nice.”
They approached the counter together. The employee typed their names into the computer, furrowed his brow.
“Ms. Berger, you are booked on flight LH1734 to Rome, departure 11:05 a.m. And you, Mr. Neumann…” He continued typing, his frown deepening. “You are booked on flight LH472 to Milan, departure 10:30 a.m.”
“Milan?” Finn sounded dismayed. “But I need to go to Rome.”
“I’m sorry, but the flight to Rome is already fully booked. We couldn’t accommodate all passengers from yesterday’s flight. From Milan, there is a train connection to Rome, travel time is about three hours.”
Lena felt a knot forming in her chest. An absurd disappointment, completely disproportionate given the circumstances.
“Could I go to Milan instead?” she asked without thinking.
The employee shook his head. “The Milan flight is also fully booked. Besides, your luggage has already been registered for the Rome flight.”
“I understand.” She lowered her gaze, suddenly self-conscious.
They received their boarding passes and stepped away from the counter. Finn stared at his ticket, then at the clock. It was already after nine.
“My flight leaves in an hour,” he said quietly.
Lena nodded silently. An hour. And then their paths would part, this strange, intense encounter would end before it had really begun.
“I should go to the gate,” he continued. “Security check and so on.”
“Yes,” she said mechanically. “Of course.”
They stood facing each other, surrounded by the bustle of the airport, like an island of silence in the stream of travelers. Two strangers who had briefly shared something neither could name.
“Well then,” Finn began, hesitantly extending his hand. “It was… interesting meeting you, Lena Berger.”
She took his hand, felt the warmth of his skin. “Likewise, Finn Neumann.”
Their hands lingered longer than necessary before slowly releasing. Finn took a step back, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Perhaps…” he began, then broke off, seemed to reorganize his thoughts. “Rome isn’t that big. Maybe we’ll cross paths.”
“Maybe,” she echoed. A polite fiction, a consolation for an ending that shouldn’t be one.
He smiled one last time, briefly raised his hand in farewell, and then turned, merging with the crowd towards security.
Lena remained standing, unable to move. She watched his back until he disappeared among the other travelers. Something within her screamed to run after him, not to let things end this way. But what would she have said? What was even between them?
With a heavy heart, she turned away and walked slowly toward her own gate. She still had time before her flight. Time to think, to ponder, to regret.
At a newsstand, she paused, absently regarded the front pages. And there, on the cover of an international magazine, she saw a photo that made her stop. A photographer amidst a demonstration, camera raised, while chaos reigned around him. The caption read: “Pulitzer Prize winner Finn Neumann documents climate protests in Barcelona.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Pulitzer Prize winner. No wonder his camera had looked so expensive. No wonder he had remained so calm during the emergency landing, that he knew how to behave in crisis situations.
She bought the magazine, hastily flipped to the article. A short biography accompanied the piece. Finn Neumann, 37, one of Europe’s most renowned photojournalists. Known for his work in conflict zones. Seriously injured during unrest in Beirut last year.
The realization hit her like a blow. The man with whom she had spent the night—albeit just sleeping, side by side—was no ordinary press photographer. He was someone whose images documented history, whose work hung in museums.
And she didn’t even have his phone number.
With sudden determination, she turned around, ran back toward security. Perhaps she could still catch him, perhaps…
The display board above her caught her eye. Flight LH472 to Milan: BOARDING.
Too late. She was too late.
With slumped shoulders, she went to her own gate, sat down on one of the empty chairs. The magazine lay open on her lap, Finn’s face looking up at her—serious, focused, the camera in front of his eye. This wasn’t how she had known him. For her, he had been the man who looked at the world through an airplane window and said he would never tire of it.
Two hours later, her flight landed in Rome. The sky was brilliantly blue, the air warm and spicy with the approach of summer. She took a taxi to the museum, let herself be driven through the chaotic Roman traffic to the Galleria Nazionale.
Dr. Ricci, her contact at the museum, received her with Italian warmth. “Signora Berger! We heard about your misfortune. A terrible experience! But you are here, safe and sound, that’s all that matters.”
“Thank you,” she said politely. “I’m glad to finally be here.”
“The painting is waiting for you. Would you like to see it right away?”
She followed him through the corridors of the museum, past masterpieces she barely noticed. Her mind was still with a plane flying to Milan, with a man whose life she had touched for only a few precious hours.
In the restoration laboratory, it stood before her—the painting for which she had come to Rome. A Deposition from the Cross, dark and dramatic, with the typical chiaroscuro of the Caravaggio school. The water damage was clearly visible, a light spot stretching across the lower left corner.
“The damage is superficial,” explained Dr. Ricci. “But it needs an experienced hand. Your hand, Signora Berger.”
She stepped closer, studied the fine brushstrokes, the traces of an artist who had lived centuries ago. Her fingers gently traced the frame, felt the old wood, the stories it contained.
“I’ll begin tomorrow,” she said softly. “Today I still need to settle in.”
In her rented apartment, a small flat in Trastevere, she methodically unpacked her few possessions. Her suitcase had indeed arrived with her flight, a small mercy in this crazy journey.
She stepped out onto the tiny balcony, looked over the rooftops of Rome. The sun was already inclining toward the horizon, bathing the Eternal City in golden light. Somewhere out there was the Gianicolo Hill that Finn had spoken of. The best vantage point to watch the sunset.
She could go there. Alone. Just to see if he was right.
But the thought felt wrong. Incomplete.
Sighing, she went back inside, dropped onto the bed. On the nightstand lay the magazine she had bought at the airport. Finn’s face stared up at her, serious and determined. So different from the man who had fallen asleep beside her, whose hand had found hers in the dark.
Her fingers traced over the photo, lingered on his face. A stranger who was no longer one. An acquaintance who would never become a friend.
One week, he had said. He would be in Rome for a week. The city was large, but not infinite. Perhaps their paths would cross. Perhaps…
Her phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. A German number she didn’t recognize. With a pounding heart, she answered the call.
“Lena Berger?”
“Yes?”
“This is Carola Weber from the press office of the German Museum of Modern Art.” The voice sounded businesslike, efficient. “Excuse the late disturbance, but we have an urgent request. It concerns the upcoming exhibition ‘Dialogue of Ages,’ where historical works will be presented alongside contemporary photography.”
Lena sat upright. “Yes, I remember. The project was presented to me before I left for Rome.”
“Exactly. We would like to ask you to examine an additional painting during your stay in Rome. It is a work by Artemisia Gentileschi that might potentially be included in the exhibition. The photographer with whom it would be paired happens to also be in Rome and could view the painting with you.”
Lena’s heart beat faster. “Which photographer are we talking about?”
“A very renowned artist. His name is Finn Neumann. Do you know him perhaps?”
The world seemed to stand still for a moment. Lena stared out the window, at the golden rooftops of Rome gleaming in the evening light.
“Yes,” she said softly, an involuntary smile stealing across her face. “We’ve met.”
Lena awoke early, before the sun rose over the rooftops of Rome. Her small apartment in Trastevere lay shrouded in the dawn’s dim light. She remained motionless for a moment, listening to the sounds of the awakening city—distant scooters, the metallic clatter of a shutter being raised, the melodic Italian of a woman calling to someone from the window opposite.
Her gaze fell on the phone on her nightstand, and the memory of yesterday’s call came back with full force. Finn. Here in Rome. A professional collaboration.
She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Coincidence—or whatever it was—had taken on an almost comedic quality. After they had said goodbye at the airport, after she had found the magazine with his photo and realized who he really was… they would now meet again under the umbrella of a shared project.
The meeting was scheduled for late morning, at the Palazzo Barberini, where Artemisia Gentileschi’s painting was kept. Enough time, then, to focus on her actual work at the Galleria Nazionale, enough time to collect herself.
She showered, dressed carefully in black linen pants and a light blue blouse, tied her hair in a loose knot. Professionalism was important, she told herself as she critically examined her reflection. This was a professional encounter. Nothing more.
Breakfast on the tiny balcony—an espresso and a cornetto she had picked up from a nearby pasticceria the previous evening. The city spread out before her, a jumble of terracotta roofs, church spires, and television antennas. Somewhere out there, Finn was also beginning his day. Was he nervous? Or was he so accustomed to surprising turns that nothing could unsettle him anymore?
At eight o’clock, she left her apartment. The Galleria Nazionale was waiting, and with it the Caravaggio painting that deserved her full attention. The meeting with Finn could wait. Had to wait.
Dr. Ricci greeted her with the typical Italian warmth she had already experienced yesterday. He led her through the still visitor-free halls of the museum to a side room that had been set up as a restoration workshop.
“Your domain for the next few weeks, Signora Berger,” he said with an inviting gesture. “Everything you need should be here. If not, don’t hesitate to ask.”
The room was perfect—bright but indirect light, a wide worktable on which the damaged painting already lay under a protective cover, and all the tools a restorer could wish for.
“Grazie, Dr. Ricci.” She approached the table and carefully lifted back the cover. Again, the sight of the painting struck her with full force—the dramatic staging, the masterful use of light, the pain and devotion in the faces of the figures taking Christ’s body down from the cross.
“Has the artist been identified?” she asked, taking a magnifying glass and carefully examining the damaged area in the lower left section of the painting.
“We suspect Giovanni Baglione. But there’s no signature. The painting technique strongly suggests a Caravaggio student, and Baglione was one of his most significant—though personally perhaps his greatest rival.” Dr. Ricci smiled. “You surely know about the defamation trial.”
Lena nodded. Art history was full of such anecdotes—personal feuds spanning centuries, manifested in brushstrokes and compositions.
“Please leave me alone,” she requested. “I want to get familiar with the painting.”
Dr. Ricci understood. The first acquaintance between restorer and artwork was an intimate process, almost like a conversation between two souls across the centuries.
When the door closed behind him, Lena set aside her bag, pulled on white cotton gloves, and began her methodical examination. Inch by inch, she explored the canvas, took notes, photographed details with her special camera. The water damage was fortunately superficial, but had revealed a complex layering of earlier, improper restoration attempts.
Time flew by. When she looked at the clock, it was already nearly eleven. The meeting at Palazzo Barberini. Finn.
With a final glance at the painting, she carefully covered it again, packed up her notes, and removed her gloves. She would return tomorrow with a clearer plan for the restoration. Today, a different kind of challenge awaited.
The sun was high in the sky as she climbed the steps of Palazzo Barberini. The magnificent baroque building housed one of Rome’s most important art collections, including works by Caravaggio, Raphael—and indeed Artemisia Gentileschi, the most significant female painter of the Italian Baroque.
In the cool entrance hall, the receptionist informed her that she was expected for the special project with the German Museum. The woman made a brief phone call, then directed Lena to a wing of the palazzo.
With each step through the echoing corridors, her tension grew. What would it be like to see Finn again? After the intensity of their brief encounter, after the shared night in the Zurich hotel—how did one meet someone with whom one had shared so much and yet so little?
A door stood open. She heard voices—one female with a distinct Italian accent, the other male, deep, with an inflection already familiar to her. Lena took a deep breath and entered.
The room was a small study, the walls lined with bookshelves. By the window stood an elegant woman in a tailored suit, gesticulating animatedly. And beside her, hands in the pockets of his cargo pants, the camera still around his neck—Finn.
He noticed her first. His eyes widened slightly, a quick smile flashed across his face before he caught himself again and assumed professional courtesy.
“Ms. Berger,” he said, approaching her and extending his hand. “What an unexpected reunion.”
His hand was warm and firm, just as she remembered it. For a brief moment their eyes met—in his was a sparkle that seemed to express surprise, joy, and something questioning all at once.
“Mr. Neumann,” she replied, striving for a neutral tone. “The world is small.”
“You know each other?” the Italian woman asked, surprised.
“We…” Finn hesitated. “We survived an emergency landing in Zurich together. One might say that creates a bond.”
The woman laughed. “Ah, capisco! Airplane friendships. How romantic.” She stepped forward and extended her hand to Lena. “Dottoressa Valentina Conti, curator here at the Palazzo. Welcome, Signora Berger. The German Museum has told me much about your work.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Lena replied. “Is the painting here?”
“It’s prepared in the restoration studio. Follow me, per favore.”
She led Lena and Finn through a narrow corridor into a bright room that resembled the one in the Galleria Nazionale, only larger and with more modern equipment. In the center, on a slightly angled easel, stood a medium-sized painting, freed from its frame.
Lena stopped in her tracks. The work was powerful, with an intensity that almost physically struck the viewer. It showed Judith, the biblical heroine, immediately after her brave deed—beheading the Assyrian general Holofernes. Judith’s face was a study in calm determination, her maid beside her appeared tense as she stuffed the severed head into a sack. The play of light and shadow, the bold color contrasts, the psychological depth—it was unmistakably an Artemisia.
“Magnifico, isn’t it?” Dottoressa Conti said softly. “One of her lesser-known works. It was only rediscovered three years ago, in a private collection in Naples. The family didn’t know what they possessed.”
Lena stepped closer, her professional curiosity temporarily displacing her self-consciousness about Finn’s presence. “The condition is remarkably good for a work from the early 17th century.”
“It was never restored. Hung for centuries in a dark salon, forgotten and thereby preserved.”
Finn had also moved closer, respecting a certain distance. “The power in her posture,” he murmured. “Not triumphant, but… stoic. As if it had been a necessary task, not an act of revenge.”
Lena looked up at him, surprised. His observation was precise, showed a deep understanding of visual language.
“Exactly,” she nodded. “Artemisia knew the Bible well. Judith wasn’t acting out of personal revenge, but to save her people. But she always painted from a very personal perspective. After her own traumatic experience…”
“The rape trial against Agostino Tassi,” Finn added. “I did a bit of research after the call yesterday.”
Dottoressa Conti looked contentedly between them. “Eccellente. You both understand the depth of the work. This is exactly what we need for this project—a dialogue between past and present.” She reached for a folder on a side table. “Mr. Neumann has brought some of his photographs that are being considered for the exhibition.”
Finn opened the folder and removed several large-format prints. He carefully placed them on the table beside the painting. Lena moved closer to examine them.
The images were powerful. They showed women in various conflict zones—a Kurdish fighter with a rifle, her gaze determined, looking into the distance; a young woman supporting an injured man during a demonstration in Beirut; an older woman standing before the ruins of her house in Ukraine, her face a study in stoic pain.
“Women in war zones,” Finn said quietly. “Not the usual victim portrayals, but moments of strength and determination. When I heard about the Artemisia project, I immediately knew which images would fit.”
Lena caught herself staring at him—not the press photographer she had read about in the magazine, but the man who had created these images with a sensitivity and understanding she hadn’t expected.
“They’re wonderful,” she said sincerely. “The dialogue with Artemisia’s work… it’s as if the women were speaking to each other across centuries.”
Something soft entered Finn’s face, a vulnerability that momentarily broke through his usual self-assured demeanor. “Thank you,” he said simply.
Dottoressa Conti clapped her hands enthusiastically. “Perfetto! Exactly this connection is what we want to show in the exhibition. But first, Signora Berger, we need your expertise. The painting doesn’t need comprehensive restoration, but an assessment for transport and exhibition in Germany. Can you create a detailed condition report?”
Lena nodded, glad to return to professional matters. “Of course. I’ll need several days to conduct all the tests.”
“Excellent. And Mr. Neumann, we need your final selection of photographs, as well as your thoughts on hanging and presentation.”
“The images are set,” said Finn. “For the hanging, I’d like to work with Ms. Berger. Her perspective as a restorer could be helpful.”
Lena gave him a quick glance. Was this a pretext to spend more time with her? Or a genuine professional consideration?
“An excellent idea,” the curator beamed. “I’ll leave you both now to become familiar with the work. Signora Berger, all the tools for your examination should be here. If you need anything, my assistant is in the office next door.”
With a smile and a wave, Dottoressa Conti disappeared from the room, leaving Lena and Finn in sudden silence.
They stood facing each other, surrounded by centuries of art history, finding themselves in a moment that was simultaneously familiar and entirely new.
“So,” Finn finally said, a crooked smile on his face. “Of all the museums in all the towns in all the world, you walk into mine.”
Lena laughed involuntarily. “Casablanca? Really?”
He shrugged, the smile widening. “It seemed appropriate.”
The tension between them eased a little. Lena turned back to the painting, grateful for the distraction.
“It really is an extraordinary work,” she said. “Look at the attention to detail—the folds in the fabric, the light reflections on the jewelry. And the psychological depth in Judith’s gaze…”
Finn stepped beside her, respecting a certain distance. “It’s similar to a good photograph,” he remarked. “The decisive moment. Not the cruel act itself, but the moment after—when the adrenaline subsides and the reality of what happened sets in.”
Lena nodded. “Exactly. Artemisia was a master of these psychological moments. Especially when it came to women doing extraordinary things.”
They worked side by side in silence for a while—Lena taking initial notes on the painting’s condition, Finn arranging and viewing his photographs in different constellations. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but carried by a strange familiarity, as if they had often worked together like this.
Finally, Lena set her notebook aside and turned to him. “The Pulitzer Prize. You didn’t mention it.”
Finn looked up from his photographs, surprised. “How do you know about that?”
“A magazine at the airport. After you left.” She hesitated. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she already recognized. “It didn’t seem important. Not in that moment, in that plane.”
“A Pulitzer Prize is pretty important.”
“Is it?” He tilted his head slightly. “It’s an award for a photo I took. It says nothing about who I am.”
Lena held his gaze, not quite convinced. “Most people would mention it. Especially if they wanted to impress someone.”
A smile flitted across his face. “Did I want to impress you?”
“You tell me.”
He looked at her for a moment, then moved closer to the painting, as if seeking a new perspective.
“Maybe,” he finally said. “But not with an award. Not with something that could be in a biography.” He turned back to her. “You know, in my job I constantly see people hiding behind facades—politicians behind well-crafted speeches, generals behind medals. I’ve learned to value what’s genuine. The moment when the mask falls.”
“And in a crashing airplane, all masks fall,” she added softly.
“Exactly.” He nodded. “There’s no better lie detector than the fear of death.”
“Was that a test? To see who I really am?”
Finn shook his head. “No. It was simply… a rare moment of truthfulness. I didn’t want to taint it with resumes and achievements.”
Lena regarded him thoughtfully. His explanation sounded sincere, and yet she sensed there was more behind it—something he wasn’t yet ready to express.
“How long are you staying in Rome?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Originally it was seven days. For the climate protests.” A crooked smile. “Now, with this project, perhaps longer. It depends on how much time you need for your examination.”
“A few days at least.”
“Then I’ll stay a few days at least.”
Their eyes met. In his was a silent question, an unspoken invitation.
“The offer still stands,” he said quietly. “The sunset on the Gianicolo.”
Lena’s heartbeat involuntarily quickened. The Gianicolo. The hill he had spoken of on the plane, just before everything went off the rails.
“I have a lot to do,” she replied evasively. “Two projects simultaneously, the Caravaggio painting at the Galleria and now this…”
“Of course.” He nodded, his face suddenly professionally neutral again. “Just a thought.”
She immediately regretted her rejection but didn’t know how to backtrack without exposing herself. Instead, she reached for her notebook again.
“I should look at the back of the painting,” she said in a businesslike manner. “That’s often where you find the most interesting clues about a work’s history.”
Finn just nodded, respectfully stepped back. “I’ll finalize my selection for Dottoressa Conti. Will it disturb you if I continue working here?”
“No, not at all.”
They worked again in silence, each absorbed in their task, but the ease from before had given way to a noticeable tension. Lena was annoyed with herself. Why hadn’t she simply accepted his offer? What was holding her back?
She knew the answer, of course: fear. Not the acute, adrenaline-driven fear of a plane crash, but the subtler, more persistent fear of closeness, of vulnerability. The fear that had led her to focus on her work, on what she could control—pigments, canvases, restoration techniques.
When she looked up again after an hour of intensive examination, Finn had disappeared. On the table lay a folded piece of paper with her name on it.
She opened it hesitantly.
Had to go to an appointment. Will contact you later about the exhibition planning. If you change your mind about the sunset: 7 p.m., Piazza Garibaldi, up on the Gianicolo. No obligation, just an offer. – F.
Lena carefully folded the note and put it in her pocket. She looked up again at Artemisia’s painting, at Judith standing with quiet determination after making a brave decision.
“Easy for you to say,” Lena murmured to the painting. “You knew what was at stake.”
The rest of the day passed in a whirl of notes, analyses, and conversations with museum employees. At five in the afternoon, Lena returned to her small apartment, exhausted but satisfied with her work on both paintings. She showered, made herself tea, and stepped out onto her tiny balcony.
The sun was already inclining toward the horizon. In two hours it would set, in a spectacular display that would bathe Rome in golden light. And up on the Gianicolo, at the city’s best vantage point, Finn would be standing and waiting. Or not.
Lena went back inside, put her teacup in the sink, and studied her reflection in the small bathroom mirror. Her hair was still damp from the shower, her face without makeup. She looked tired, but also somehow… expectant? As if she stood on the threshold of something new.
The decision came suddenly, almost without conscious thought. She blow-dried her hair, applied some mascara and lip gloss, changed from her comfortable home clothes into a simple blue summer dress. Nothing extraordinary, nothing that looked like desperate effort. Just a little more than the professional look she wore during the day.
At half past six, she left the apartment. The Gianicolo wasn’t far from Trastevere, perhaps a twenty-minute walk. She went slowly, took her time, enjoyed the evening atmosphere of the city. Around her, Rome’s nightlife was coming to life—cafés filling up, street musicians tuning their instruments, couples strolling arm in arm through the narrow alleys.
The path to the hill led along narrow streets, then up a steep climb. Lena felt her heartbeat accelerate, but not just from the physical exertion. With each step, her nervousness grew. What if he wasn’t there? What if he was? What did she expect from this meeting?
When she reached Piazza Garibaldi, it was just before seven. The square was, as expected, full of tourists waiting for the sunset. Lena let her gaze sweep over the crowd, searching for a familiar figure.
And then she saw him. He was standing somewhat apart from the main bustle, at a stone balustrade, the camera loosely in his hand, his gaze directed over the city. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his usual cargo pants. His hair moved slightly in the evening breeze.
For a moment, Lena stood still and observed him from a distance. He looked calm, focused, almost meditative as he followed the light effects of the sinking sun on the domes and rooftops of Rome. Occasionally he raised the camera, took a photo, lowered it again. From time to time, he glanced at his watch or let his gaze sweep across the square, searching.
Lena took a deep breath and walked toward him. As she came closer, he noticed her. A smile spread across his face—not surprised, but pleased. As if he had hoped, but not expected.
“You came,” he said simply when she reached him.
“I was curious,” she replied. “Whether you’re right about the best sunset in Rome.”
His smile deepened. “I’m rarely wrong about good views.”
He stepped aside, made room for her at the balustrade. Lena stood beside him, felt the warmth of his body next to hers without them touching.
Below them, Rome spread out like a living painting. The setting sun bathed everything in warm, golden light. The dome of St. Peter’s caught the light like an otherworldly lantern, while the Tiber flowed through the city like molten gold. Thousands of windows reflected the sunlight, making the buildings shimmer and glitter.
“Oh,” Lena gasped involuntarily. “This is…”
“Yes,” Finn said softly. “Exactly.”
They stood silently side by side, watched as the sun slowly sank on the horizon, as the shadows grew longer, as the gold gradually turned to deep red and then to gentle violet.
“You were right,” Lena finally whispered. “It is the best view.”
“It is,” said Finn, but when she looked over at him, he was no longer looking at the city, but at her. In his eyes was an intensity that took her breath away. “Definitely the best view.”
Lena felt herself blushing. She looked away, back at the city, which now lay in the gathering dusk. The first lights began to shine, like stars rising from the ground.
“Thank you for coming,” Finn said after a while. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
“Neither was I,” she admitted.
“What convinced you?”
She thought for a moment. “Artemisia, perhaps. The woman who was brave enough to go her own way, in a time when women weren’t allowed to.”
Finn nodded slowly. “Interesting inspiration.” He raised his camera, took a photo of the city in the twilight. “You know what impresses me most about Artemisia’s Judith? The composure. The courage that doesn’t come from impulsiveness, but from calm deliberation.”
“As opposed to you, you mean?” Lena smiled slightly. “The impulsive photojournalist who jumps into crisis zones?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Although… it’s not always impulsivity. Sometimes it’s a very conscious decision to go where others run away.”
“Like the decision to hold a stranger’s hand in a crashing airplane?”
A gentle smile played around his lips. “That wasn’t a decision. That was… instinct.”
Their eyes met, held each other. In this moment, on this hill above Rome, with the Eternal City at their feet, time seemed to stand still.
“Hungry?” Finn suddenly asked, breaking the spell of the moment.
Lena blinked, surprised by the change of subject. “Yes, actually.”
“I know a small restaurant, not far from here. Nothing touristy, real Roman food. If you’d like…”
It was a simple invitation, and yet so much more than that. A decision to extend the evening, not to let their shared time end.
“Gladly,” said Lena.
They left the viewpoint while the tourists around them took their final photos and slowly dispersed. The path led them down a narrow trail, back to Trastevere. Finn walked beside her, respected her personal space, but close enough that she occasionally brushed against his arm.
“How long have you been doing this?” Lena asked as they descended a steeper passage. “Photography in… difficult areas.”
“Fifteen years. I started with local news in Hamburg, then international topics. Eventually I landed in my first conflict zone—almost by accident. An assignment about refugees in Turkey led me to the Syrian border. There I took pictures that suddenly were everywhere.” He smiled crookedly. “The rest is history, as they say.”
“Isn’t it… frightening? Dangerous?”
He was silent for a moment. “Yes, both. But also important. Someone has to tell these stories.”
She nodded understandingly. “Like my restoration work. It feels important to preserve these works, to protect their stories.”
“Exactly.” Finn smiled. “We’re both in the business of preservation. You preserve the past, I preserve the present.”
The restaurant was exactly as he had described it—small, inconspicuous, almost hidden in a side alley. Inside, only a few tables, most occupied by locals. A good sign. They got a table by the window, with a view of the alley now shrouded in darkness, where only occasionally passersby strolled by.
They ordered on Finn’s recommendation—Carciofi alla Romana as an appetizer, then Bucatini all’Amatriciana for Lena and Saltimbocca alla Romana for Finn. Plus a bottle of Montepulciano.
When the wine came, they clinked glasses—not to Rome this time, but silently to this moment, this unexpected turn in their story.
“Tell me about Berlin,” said Finn as they waited for their food. “What does a talented restorer do when not working in Italy?”
Lena took a sip of wine, considered. “My life in Berlin is… quiet. Structured. I work for a small private museum, mainly restore German and Dutch paintings. In between, I teach at the art school.”
“Family?”
“My parents live in Munich. We see each other a few times a year. Otherwise…” She shrugged. “Few close friends. Lots of work.”
“No cat? No canary?” He grinned.
She laughed. “Not even a houseplant. I’m away too often.”
“Something we have in common.”
The appetizer arrived—tender artichoke hearts in olive oil and garlic, perfectly prepared. They ate in silence, enjoyed the simple but exquisite dish.
“And you?” Lena finally asked. “Hamburg, you said?”
“Nominally. I have an apartment there that I see maybe forty days a year.” He cut a piece of artichoke. “The rest is… everywhere and nowhere. Hotel rooms, airports, crisis zones.”
“Sounds lonely.”
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. “It is sometimes. But you get used to it. Eventually loneliness becomes a habit, almost a comfort.” He paused. “Until something happens that reminds you of what you’re missing.”
“Like an emergency landing with a stranger?”
“For example.” He smiled, an honest, open smile that reached his eyes.
The main course arrived, and they switched to lighter topics—favorite places in Rome, art exhibitions they had seen, books they had both read. The conversation flowed effortlessly, interrupted by comfortable silences in which they enjoyed their food.
As they emptied their plates and the wine bottle neared its end, Finn leaned back and regarded her with a thoughtful look.
“May I ask you something, Lena? Something personal?”
She hesitated briefly, then nodded. “Of course.”
“What’s your story? I mean, what made you a restorer? It doesn’t seem like the most obvious career aspiration for a child.”
Lena rotated her wine glass between her fingers, contemplated the deep red of the last sips.
“My grandfather,” she finally said softly. “He wasn’t a restorer, but a cabinet maker. But he taught me how to repair things, how to care for them, how to recognize their value. He had an old grandfather clock—nothing special, but valuable to him. As a child, I was allowed to help him maintain it, polish the wood, oil the clockwork.”
She paused, smiled at the memory. “When I was ten, the clock stopped. My grandfather was sick, couldn’t fix it. So I tried—secretly, with his tools. I had no idea what I was doing, but I wanted to get it running for him.”
“And? Did you succeed?”
“No.” She laughed softly. “I only damaged it worse. But instead of being angry, my grandfather showed me how to do it properly. We worked on it for weeks, cleaned, polished, oiled every little part. And when it ran again…” She shook her head. “That feeling—having saved something valuable, something that would otherwise have been lost… I think that’s where it began.”
Finn regarded her with a warm look. “That explains a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your patience. Your care. The way you look at things—as if they had a soul, a history worth preserving.”
Lena felt herself blushing again. To be seen this way, to be understood this way by someone who barely knew her…
“And you?” she asked, to divert attention from herself. “How does one become a photojournalist in crisis zones?”
Something darkened in Finn’s face, just for a moment, then his relaxed expression returned.
“A question for another dinner, perhaps,” he said lightly. “It’s not a story for good food and good wine.”
Lena nodded, respected his wish not to talk about it. Everyone had their boundaries, their private spaces.
“All right,” she said simply. “Another time.”
They finished their meal with espresso and a shared tiramisu. Finn insisted on paying the bill—”You’re my guest in Rome”—and Lena let it happen, promised herself to pay next time.
Next time. The words echoed in her head as they left the restaurant and stepped out into the cool night air. There would be a next time, of that she was now certain.
They strolled through the nightly alleys of Trastevere, which were now full of life—music spilled from the bars, laughter from the restaurants, people everywhere enjoying the mild spring night.
“Where do you live?” asked Finn. “I’ll walk you home.”
“Not far from here.” She pointed in a direction. “Maybe ten minutes on foot.”
They walked side by side, their hands occasionally brushing, but neither made an attempt to grasp the other’s hand. It was a pleasant tension between them, an unspoken promise of more, but without pressure, without haste.
At a street corner, Lena stopped. “Here it is,” she said, pointing to an old apartment building with weathered facade and green shutters.
Finn nodded, looked up at the building. “Nice. Suits you.”
They stood facing each other in the weak light of a street lamp, surrounded by the soft murmur of the night city. The moment of farewell had come, and yet both hesitated.
“Thank you for the evening,” Lena finally said.
“Thank you for coming.” He smiled, a gentle, almost shy smile. “I’m glad we found each other again. After Zurich, I mean.”
“Me too.”
Another moment of hesitation. Then, almost simultaneously, they moved toward each other. Finn’s hand gently stroked her cheek, while she placed her hand on his chest, felt the steady heartbeat beneath her fingertips.
Their kiss was tender, questioning, a careful exploration. Then, as the initial surprise faded, it deepened, became firmer, more certain. Lena felt a shiver run through her body, felt something within her release that had long been locked away.
When they separated, they remained close, forehead to forehead, breath mingling.
“I should go,” Finn whispered. “We both have work tomorrow.”
“Yes,” said Lena, although part of her wanted to protest, wanted to ask him to stay.
He took a step back, his eyes never leaving hers. “When will we see each other again? For the project, I mean.”
“Tomorrow at the Palazzo? At three?”
“Perfect.” He smiled. “And afterwards perhaps… dinner?”
“Gladly.”
He leaned forward, kissed her again, briefly and sweetly. “Good night, Lena Berger.”
“Good night, Finn Neumann.”
She watched as he walked down the street, turned once and raised his hand before disappearing around a corner. Only then did she climb the steps to her apartment door, a smile on her lips that she couldn’t suppress.
In her apartment, she fell onto the bed, touched her lips with her fingertips, as if she could still feel his kiss. It was like a dream—the unexpected flight, the emergency landing, the shared night in Zurich, the surprising reunion in Rome, and now this.
She reached for her phone to set the alarm and noticed a message from Dr. Ricci at the museum. She opened it, expecting a question about the restoration of the Caravaggio painting.
Instead, she read:
Signora Berger, excuse the late disturbance. An urgent matter has arisen. This afternoon we received a communication from the Vatican. It appears that your Caravaggio painting may have been stolen—long ago, during the Second World War. A claim for its return has been filed. Please come to the museum as early as possible tomorrow morning. Discrete handling is required.
Lena stared at the message, the glow of the evening suddenly faded. A stolen painting. A restitution claim. And in the middle of it all: her.
As she set the phone aside and looked out the window into the night, she knew that her Roman adventure had taken a turn that went far beyond a romantic sunset and a first kiss. And she wasn’t sure if she was ready for what was to come.