De meisjes staan in de sneeuw zonder schoenen en wachten op haar moeder – tot er motorrijders op de weg verschijnen.3 min czytania.

“Oh, please, don’t go—not yet.” She shivered, pulling her thin coat tighter. “I’m not finished waiting.”

But the snow kept falling, and the wind whispered through the empty streets of Amsterdam. The shops were all closed, their windows dark. Only the old bicycle repairman remained, tinkering with a chain under the dim glow of a streetlamp.

“You’ll catch your death,” he muttered, not looking up. “Go home.”

But she didn’t move. She’d been waiting for hours, ever since the last tram had rattled away into the night. She’d watched the mist roll in from the canals, turning the cobblestones slick and dangerous.

“He said he’d come,” she whispered, more to herself than to the repairman. “He promised.”

The repairman sighed, his breath fogging in the cold air. “Promises are like ice, girl. They melt under pressure.” He finally looked at her, his eyes shadowed beneath his cap. “What’s his name, this boy of yours?”

“Luca,” she said, the name feeling like a prayer on her lips. “He’s from Italy. He said… he said he’d bring me flowers.”

The repairman snorted. “Flowers? In this weather? He’s either a fool or a liar.” He stood, wiping his greasy hands on his overalls. “You’re too young to be standing out here alone. Where are your parents?”

She shrugged, her gaze fixed on the corner where the streetlights faded into darkness. “They don’t know I’m here. They think I’m at a friend’s house.”

“Ah,” he said, his voice softening. “I see. Well, Luca or no Luca, you can’t stay here. It’s not safe.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn-out wallet. “Here,” he said, handing her a few euro notes. “Take the night bus. Go home.”

She stared at the money, her pride warring with her desperation. Finally, she took it. “Thank you,” she mumbled, her cheeks flushing with shame.

But just as she turned to leave, a motorbike roared around the corner, its headlight slicing through the fog. It skidded to a halt in front of her, and the rider—a tall figure in a leather jacket—pulled off his helmet.

“Lila?” he called, his voice familiar yet strained. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The train was delayed, and then—”

He stopped when he saw the repairman, who had taken a step forward, his wrench held like a club.

“Who are you?” the repairman asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’m Luca,” the boy said, his Italian accent thick. “Lila’s… friend.”

The repairman didn’t lower the wrench. “She’s been waiting for you for over two hours. In the cold. Do you have any idea—”

“I know, I know,” Luca interrupted, his hands up in surrender. “It was… it was unforgivable. But I’m here now.” He turned to Lila, his eyes pleading. “I brought you something.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, slightly crumpled bouquet. Tulips. Red ones.

Lila’s breath caught in her throat. “You… you remembered.”

“Of course I did,” he said, smiling weakly. “I told you I would.”

The repairman watched them for a moment longer, then slowly lowered his wrench. “See that she gets home safely,” he grunted at Luca. “No more delays.”

Luca nodded, his face serious. “I will. I promise.”

As the motorbike sped away into the night, the repairman shook his head and went back to his work. “Young love,” he muttered to himself. “Always in a rush.”

But Lila, holding onto Luca as they weaved through the empty streets, felt anything but rushed. She felt warm, despite the cold. She felt… found.

And then she saw the snowflakes caught in his hair, and she knew.

She wasn’t waiting anymore. She was exactly where she was meant to be.

The end. For now.