The summer had returned, and with it, the only rhythm that mattered.
The coastal train hissed to a stop, but Andrei didn't move. Outside the window, the station sign for Constanța was peeling—a victim of the salt air and the passage of time. The summer had returned, and with it, the
Last year, this platform had been a stage. He remembered Elena’s laughter cutting through the humid July heat, her hand gripping a melting ice cream cone in one hand and his sleeve in the other. They had made a ridiculous, desperate pact on the final night of August: — Until next summer. They wouldn't call. They wouldn't text. They would let the winter test if what they felt was real or just the "fever of the sand." The summer had returned