The Last Summer in Porto

Marta took her flight. She missed Rui, but she also returned to work she cared about. They spoke regularly, sometimes warmly, sometimes badly, as people do when their days do not match.

In autumn, she visited for a weekend. Rui had found a smaller apartment and a job he actually liked. The guesthouse had become a family home. Its new owners had kept the chair.

They sat in a café and compared calendars. There were no speeches about destiny. There was a train journey he could make, a week she could take and a conversation about where they might live eventually.

The summer had ended. The story had not. For the first time, neither mistook an uncertain future for a reason to stop choosing each other in the present.