A traveler with a camera always thinks he's the one doing the watching.
He notices the old restaurant signs, wooden shutters, flowers on windowsills, peeling plaster, wires strung across the walls — anything, really, with enough texture to catch his eye.
What he doesn't notice — not at first — is someone watching him from a half-open window.
At first, calm. Attentive. Slightly suspicious. Then faintly disappointed. A moment later, the window is empty again, as if no one had ever been there.
This is how old towns size up their visitors. Not with signs or questions, but with the gaze of someone who's spent a lifetime on the same street. Someone who learned long ago that travelers come and go.
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