Not quite finished...

The crowds weren’t heavy that day - much to my surprise.

We walked along the paved streets, taking our time—pausing at bakery windows, looking over handmade pieces, searching for something small we could carry home with us. Something that would hold the feeling of this place.

So far from home. Another country… and somehow it felt like another time.
It was safe, and it was the kind of afternoon you want to cherish forever.

And then I looked up.

A red balloon floating in the sky.

Bright. Still.

I looked at my husband and pointed.
“What?” he said.

“The balloon… don’t you see it?”

He followed where I was pointing, squinting slightly, then looked back at me.
“There’s no balloon. What are you talking about?”

I didn’t answer right away.

Because it was still there.

Exactly where I had seen it.

I glanced back at him, then up again, just to be sure I hadn’t imagined it.

But it hadn’t moved.

And somehow… that was worse.

The street carried on like nothing had changed—people talking, walking, laughing—but something had shifted. Just enough that I could feel it under everything else.

Like the moment had split in two.

One where everything was still safe and simple…

…and one where I was the only one who could see what didn’t belong.