Chapter 43 – Bruges
The airport was quiet.
Not silent—but hushed in that particular way only airports could be. Announcements whispered in three languages. Wheels hummed across tile. People moved with purpose, but without urgency.
Jota sat near Gate B12, bag tucked between his feet, notebook unopened.
He had written nothing since the night before.
Not because there was nothing to say.
But because sometimes, beginnings needed space to breathe before being named.
---
The flight took two and a half hours.
Not long enough to sleep.
Too long to sit still.
He stared out the window, clouds peeling away to reveal a patchwork of fields, towns, and rivers. Everything below looked precise. Clean. Cold.
When the plane landed in Belgium, the air was different.
Not just colder.
Sharper.
He zipped his jacket, stepped into the arrivals hall, and scanned the crowd.
A man in a navy coat held a sign: "J. MARTINS – Club Brugge"
Jota approached.
The man smiled. "João?"
