What About You, Valentino?

Valentino didn’t notice her at first.

That wasn’t unusual. He was practiced at seeing others—the way a feather trembled when someone hesitated, the way laughter arrived half a second late when it was covering something fragile. He’d learned to keep his own presence soft enough that it didn’t interrupt the room.

She was sitting at the far end of the canal wall, shoes off, feet dangling just above the water. No table. No lantern. No signal. Just watching the reflections distort and reform as boats passed.

He might have walked by.

He almost did.

But when he reached the edge of her peripheral vision, she spoke—not hurried, not startled.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said.

Valentino paused. “Do what?”

She smiled faintly. “Decide whether I need you.”

That earned her his full attention.

He turned and leaned back against the railing beside her, careful to keep a respectful distance. “Occupational hazard,” he said lightly.

“I know,” she replied. “I’ve been watching you.”

That could have gone a hundred directions. He waited, relaxed.

“You’re very good,” she continued. “You make people feel like they’re the only story in the city for a little while.”

He nodded. Compliments slid off him easily these days.

She tilted her head, finally looking at him directly. Her eyes weren’t hungry. They weren’t lonely. They were… curious.

“So,” she said, as if asking the time, “what about you, Valentino?”

The question landed softly. No drama. No weight. No expectation attached.

He felt something in his chest loosen, like a knot he hadn’t realized he was keeping tied.

“That’s not usually part of the evening,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “I’m not here for the evening.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The canal lapped gently against stone. Somewhere behind them, music drifted out of The Velvet Lily, muffled by distance.

“When do you feel like the world hasn’t forgotten you?” she asked, repeating it exactly, without emphasis.

Valentino thought about it.

Not the polished answer. Not the charming one.

He thought about mornings in the north marsh, fog thick enough to erase the horizon. About the way reeds whispered when the wind moved through them. About the rare nights when someone laughed and then stopped talking—not because they’d run out of words, but because the quiet felt safe.

“Right now,” he said, surprised by the truth of it. “Like this.”

She nodded, as if confirming a hypothesis.

“Good,” she said. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

She slipped her shoes back on, stood, and brushed off her feathers.

“You’re doing important work,” she added. “But don’t forget—you’re not just a place people pass through.”

Then she walked away, unhurried, disappearing into the soft geometry of the city.

Valentino stayed where he was, the canal cool beneath his feet.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t wonder who might ask the question again.

He knew it could be asked.

And that was enough.