Kapitola 8 – Say it softly

The bistro was starting to fill up for lunch.

Hamburger perceived it as an increase in noise behind his back — more voices, more movement at the counter, more people arriving with jackets wet from snow and bringing December inside. The square table by the back wall was still theirs, but the space around it was growing thicker.

Christmas felt it too. Hamburger could tell by the way he drew himself a little closer to the table, shoulders dropping slightly, like a person trying to make themselves smaller when the surroundings get too loud.

Hamburger picked up his phone.

He wrote in Czech:

You want to go outside?

He turned the screen around.

Christmas read it. He looked at the window—wet pavement, snow still falling gently, a gray noon.

Then he nodded.

They stood up.

They carried their trays over to the rack where people with food were walking past. Hamburger went to the door first. He opened it. Cold air rushed in. Christmas took over the door and closed it.

The street.

They stood by the door for a moment, because that is the exact moment when you are outside and don't know where to go yet. Hamburger had his hands in his pockets. Christmas too. Both of them looked out into the street — not at each other, just into the street.

Then Hamburger went left.

Christmas went with him.

When two people step out of a door, one moves, the other moves the same way.

Hamburger walked and next to him walked Christmas, thinking to himself: what now.

A man from the bistro who answered in Chinese and wrote in Czech. A man named Christmas, his fingers trembling.

What now.

Hamburger didn't know.

An arcade.

They stepped inside. Mosaic tile flooring, storefronts on the sides, most of them closed or half-shut. A few people hurried past.

Hamburger stopped by the wall.

There was no bench or alcove there. Just a spot where nobody walked. Christmas stopped beside him. They stood by the arcade wall and Hamburger pulled out his phone.

He opened the translator.

He wrote in Czech:

How long have you been in Prague?

He turned the screen around.

Christmas a Hamburger read it. He took out his phone — a slightly older model, with a crack in the lower corner of the case that Hamburger only noticed now — and typed.

Wǒ yīzhí zhù zài zhèlǐ. (I've been living here all along.)

Hamburger read the translation. He nodded.

He typed:

Did you grow up here?

Christmas read it and a slight smile appeared on his face.

Then he wrote in Czech:

Yes. Prague is mine.

And under it:

But now she is distant to me.

Hamburger read it.

Distant.

The word struck him. Christmas lives in Prague, Prague is his, and yet she is distant to him. Not on a map. Far away in the way a language in which the city became yours can be far away. A language in which you used to go to the store, said exact things with the exact word, and it sounded right. When that language stops working as a bridge, the city can turn into a thing behind glass.

Hamburger felt similarly.

He typed:

I understand.

Christmas read it.

Then he looked at Hamburger.

Hamburger did not start writing again right away. He was just there.

Christmas nodded.

A small nod.

Acceptance.

They walked on through the arcade.

They walked side by side. Hamburger had a stride a few centimeters longer, Christmas a slightly faster one. Hamburger shortened his pace. Christmas quickened his step a bit. Automatically. Without a word. When two people walk together and truly walk together.

Phones in hand.

Hamburger held his phone in his left hand. Christmas in his right. Between their hands was twenty centimeters of air, two open phones, ready, but still silent.

Prague around them.

Hamburger perceived it differently than when he was alone. As if the city had taken on a new shape because someone else was present. Prague stopped being just around him. It began to be around him and between them.

Christmas stopped.

Hamburger turned around.

Christmas was standing by a jewelry store window. The window was lit — a few pieces of jewelry on a pad, rings, earrings, a single necklace. Christmas looked with the attention a person gives to things that are beautiful and want nothing from him.

Hamburger stood next to him.

He waited.

In Hamburg, he perhaps wouldn't have thought to expect it. He was used to movement, to the pace, to needing a reason to stop. But Christmas stopped, and a jeweler's window in the light of a Prague evening was enough.

Christmas wrote:

Jīn. (Gold.)

Then underneath in Czech:

I like how it looks in the light.

Hamburger read it.

He looked at the window. At the simple ring in the middle, yellow gold, without a stone, just a circle. The window light hit it in such a way that it was a little bit more golden than its surroundings, a little bit more present than the other jewelry.

He typed:

Me too.

It was true.

Christmas read it.

Then he turned away from the window and they walked on.

The street led them to a tram stop. They stood under a shelter that protected them from the snow not perfectly, but enough. The stops have been for decoration rather than shelter for years. A few other people were waiting there — an older woman with a shopping bag, a man with a dog on a leash. The dog was dark, somewhat large, and sitting calmly like someone who doesn't mind the cold ground.

Hamburger looked at the sign — tram times, routes. He didn't know where he would go. He had no reason to go anywhere in particular.

He picked up his phone.

He typed:

Do you need to go somewhere?

He turned him around.

Christmas read it. Then in Czech, with his fingers:

No.

Hamburger nodded.

He typed:

Me neither.

Two people at a tram stop who don't have to go anywhere. Christmas thought that staying a little longer was easy, especially since Hamburger wasn't pushing hard by dominating the conversation. He started expressing himself like him. He naturally began writing to him, and now he didn't have to frantically type away, but could reply at ease.

The tram arrived.

It wasn't theirs, because they had no destination in mind. It arrived, opened its doors, an elderly woman got on, a man with a dog got on, and the tram left.

Hamburger and Christmas stayed at the stop.

A breeze was blowing and snow was falling both on the shelter and on their shoulders and hair. Christmas had it in his hair like powdered sugar.

Hamburger saw it.

Snow in his hair.

So that's how it is.

So that's how these things happen.

At the tram stop under the shelter with the snow drifting down.

He picked up his phone.

He looked at the screen for a moment. Then he wrote in Czech, slowly:

How did you learn Chinese?

He turned him around.

Christmas read it.

His expression changed. He took his phone. He wrote for a long time. Christmas a Hamburger watched him write, delete, write again. The movement of his fingers slow, uncertain.

Then he turned the screen around:

Wǒ bù zhīdào. (I don't know.)

And below that in Czech:

One day it was simply there.

Hamburger read it.

One day it was simply there. He didn't write that he had learned it. He didn't write that he had studied, taken a course, or that someone had explained it to him. Just this: one day it was simply there.

As if the Chinese hadn't come from the outside. As if it had hatched from within him. It had been waiting there and something had opened it. Hamburger stared at that sentence longer than necessary.

Then he wrote:

I understand.

Christmas read it and looked at him.

Hamburger didn't look away.

Christmas nodded.

The tram arrived. A different line. The doors opened.

Hamburger looked at Christmas.

Christmas looked at the tram.

Then back at Hamburger.

They got on.

It was warm in the tram. It was almost empty. That moment between rush hours when about ten people are sitting in the car and everyone has a seat.

Hamburger sat with his back to the window. Christmas sat right next to him like a carbon copy.

Prague was passing before their eyes — streets, shop windows, the embankment for a moment, then streets again. Snow in the air. The golden light of the shop windows slowly intensified as the afternoon leaned toward dusk. Hamburger looked outside, Christmas looked outside, they sat side by side in the heated tram.

Hamburger's phone lay on his thigh.

Hamburger smelled it — that moment when silence says: well then.

He picked up his phone.

He typed:

In Hamburg, there is a port.

He turned him around.

Christmas read it and waited. His expression said: and?

Hamburger added:

I go there when I don't know what to do.

Christmas read it.

Then he took his phone and wrote:

Wǒ yǒu Vltava. (I have the Vltava.)

A hybrid. A Chinese construction with a Czech word tagging along.

Then under it in Czech with fingers:

I go to the water too.

Hamburger looked at that sentence.

Wǒ yǒu Vltava.

I have the Vltava.

Hamburger only wrote:

I was there this morning. By the Vltava.

Christmas read it.

Then he turned directly toward Hamburger. The distance between the adjacent seats was suddenly smaller than he expected. Christmas had a bit of redness on his cheeks from the frost and the warmth of the tram.

Then he pointed out the window.

Hamburger turned around.

Outside the window, they were passing by the Náplavka. The stretch where the tram runs along the river and you can see the water, the embankment, the lamps, and the distant bridge. The Vltava under the snow clouds was dark and calm, the embankment white on the stones where the snow had stayed.

Hamburger looked at it.

Christmas looked at it.

The tram moved on. The Náplavka disappeared and the streets came back again.

Christmas wrote in Czech:

I was here today too.

Hamburger read it.

He typed:

Ráno?

Christmas:

Afternoon.

Hamburger looked out the window.

Afternoon by the embankment. He was there in the morning. Then he walked along the river, then to a restaurant, Wenceslas Square, arcade, bistro. Christmas was by the embankment in the afternoon.

Their paths missed each other by a few hours.

Or they got closer.

Prague led two paths to each other across water and snow, and they ended at a single square table in a bistro.

He typed:

Prague is smaller than it looks.

Christmas read it.

He smiled slightly.

He smiled.

The tram stopped.

Hamburger looked at the stop. He didn't know where they were, he hadn't been watching the line. He looked at Christmas. Christmas had no intention of getting off.

They sat on.

The tram moved.

Hamburger took out his phone and typed. Then he deleted. Then again. He wanted to ask about Christmas's condition. He wanted to write something that said: I'm here and I'm not in a hurry. But the sentence was complicated.

Finally he wrote:

Is it hard? Every day?

He turned it around.

Christmas read it.

Silence. Longer than after the previous sentences.

The tram was running through the streets.

Then Christmas picked up his phone and typed in Chinese:

Yǒushí. (Sometimes.)

Then with his fingers in Czech:

Depends where. At home it's different. Outside it's harder.

Hamburger read it.

Home is different.

Home — bedroom, kitchen, a place where the environment knows your voice, or where it doesn't matter what voice you use because you are alone. Outside — bistros, queues, shop assistants, people who sigh behind you.

He typed:

You're here with me now. Is that okay?

Christmas read it.

Yes.

Hamburger let out a breath. He got the answer he needed.

The tram stopped on a wide street. New people got on, a few got off. The car filled up a bit. Suddenly, Hamburger and Christmas had no privacy.

Hamburger picked up his phone:

Don't you need to translate everything right away?

Christmas read it.

He looked at Hamburger. Maybe he was expecting impatience.

He typed:

Nǐ shuō de hěn qīngchǔ. (You say it clearly.)

Hamburger looked at the translation.

You say it clearly.

He didn't know if it was a compliment, but it didn't matter.

The tram stopped.

Hamburger looked out of the window.

The embankment. A different section. The tram ran along the river, the snow had stopped falling and the Vltava was visible in the harsh December light when it was only four in the afternoon and yet it looked like early evening. Christmas looked out of the window.

Then Christmas wrote. He wrote for a long time. Hamburger heard the quiet sound of fingers on the screen. He stopped. He started again. Then he turned the phone over:

I had a lot of snow in my hair this morning.

Then underneath in Chinese:

Wǒ xǐhuān. (I liked it.)

Hamburger read it.

Snow in his hair.

Christmas this morning with snow in her hair. In the afternoon by the Náplavka embankment. Then a bistro.

Hamburger picked up his phone.

He typed:

I saw you.

He stopped.

Before turning the screen over, he read the sentence again. I saw you. A sentence that says more than he intended. Or exactly what he intended.

He deleted it.

He typed:

Snow in the hair is great.

Christmas read it.

Then he looked at Hamburger and then wrote:

You turned around today. In the street.

Hamburger stopped.

Christmas continued in Czech with his fingers:

At the corner. There was snow. You turned around to look at me.

Hamburger was looking at the display.

He saw him. In that street, at the corner, where Christmas was crossing the road and Hamburger stood and turned around. Christmas saw him. He wrote:

Yes.

One word.

Christmas read it.

Then he wrote in Chinese:

Wǒ yě kànjiàn nǐ. (I saw you too.)

Hamburger looked at that sentence.

I saw you too.

Outside the window was Prague in the blue hour, when the lights of shop windows begin to overpower the rest of the daylight and the city changes color from gray to gold. That transition takes twenty minutes.

Their shoulders were a centimeter apart.

Hamburger picked up his phone.

He wrote slowly:

I've been in Prague for a week. I came from Hamburg.

Christmas read it and wrote:

Why?

Hamburger replied:

I needed different air.

Christmas wrote in Czech:

Yeah, I know that feeling.

Hamburger read it.

Yes.

He probably does.

Christmas, who lives in Prague, and Prague, which is distant to him. Christmas, who speaks Czech inside and Chinese outside. Christmas, who walks to the Vltava.

Hamburger wrote:

Will you stay outside a little longer?

Christmas read it.

He looked at the window — Prague in the blue hour. Then at Hamburger.

Then he nodded.

They got off at the next stop.

Hamburger didn't know exactly where. Christmas probably did. The spatial memory of a city you know. Streets. The snow on the sidewalk lay thicker here than in the center, maybe a different microclimate, or maybe it had just piled up. Hamburger walked and his shoes sounded muffled on the snowy pavement compared to the wet one.

Christmas walked alongside.

They walked for a few minutes without a phone. Without texting, without a translator, without sentences.

Just walking.

Hamburger thought to himself: well, now this is something.

Then Christmas stopped in front of a shop window.

A Chinese goods store. Shelves visible through the glass: rice, sauces, tea, things that are Chinese, but not exotic. A plastic sign above the door with Chinese characters and underneath in Czech: Asian Groceries.

Christmas looked at the display window.

Hamburger stood next to him.

Christmas took his phone and wrote:

Zhè lǐ mài hǎo chī de. (They sell good food here.)

Then underneath in Czech:

I know the lady.

Hamburger wrote:

Do you come here?

Christmas:

Yes. Tea. And other things.

Hamburger looked into the window. Practical shelves with practical goods. Tea boxes. Sauces in bottles with Chinese labels. Rice in bags. Instant noodles. Candies in a clear bag with a name he couldn't read.

He typed:

You're reading those signs here.

Christmas read it.

Then he wrote mildly — not patronizingly, just precisely:

Dāngrán. (Of course.)

Hamburger smiled.

Christmas saw it.

They walked on. The street was narrowing. Houses close together, windows with lights shining from them, mugs, lamps, or computers visible through the curtains. Intimate Prague. Homelike. Hamburger liked this Prague more than the showy one.

Christmas walked along and seemed to know where they were. He had his own pace, not very fast. Hamburger was glad they weren't in a hurry.

Hamburger picked up his phone.

He typed:

Do you mind if I ask about things?

Christmas wrote in Czech:

No. It depends on the question.

Hamburger nodded.

Are you thinking in Chinese now? Or Czech? Or both?

Christmas read it.

Silence.

Wǒ juéde… liǎng gè. (I feel… both.)

Chinese is faster. In Czech, I have to search.

Hamburger read it.

Chinese is faster.

In Czech, I have to search.

That was precise. Hamburger knew it through German. German came to him faster than Czech. It wasn't translated, it was right there. Czech had to pass elsewhere — into an older place, into an older body, into a version of itself that is slower and a little different.

He typed:

German comes to me faster. Czech is slower. But slower in a different way — like something from before.

Christmas read it.

Then he switched the app and drew a shape on the screen with his finger.

A loop or a spiral, a nameless thing.

Hamburger looked at the shape.

Christmas deleted it and typed in Czech:

That's how I feel it. I don't have a word for it.

Hamburger read it.

I don't have a word for it.

He wrote slowly:

Me neither. I don't have a word for a lot of things. Yet they exist.

Christmas read it.

Then he put his phone in his pocket.

Hamburger put his phone in his pocket too.

They stopped by the park.

A small park, or rather a little square with trees. Prague trees in winter without leaves, just wire shapes. A pigeon was sitting on a bench by a tree. A single one, without a partner, exceptionally lonely in a way pigeons usually aren't. It sat and stared into space.

Christmas looked at him.

Then he took out his phone.

Hǎo gūdú de gēzi. (Such a lonely pigeon.)

Hamburger read the translation.

He looked at the pigeon. Then at Christmas.

Prague has a lot of lonely pigeons. They probably like it.

Christmas read it.

The pigeon flew away.

It moved to a branch above them. Calmly and without intention. The branch bent slightly under its small weight and then straightened out.

Hamburger picked up his phone.

Are you hungry?

Christmas read it.

A little.

Hamburger wrote:

Me too. Do you know any good place?

Christmas just nodded.

He took Hamburger by the sleeve. Briefly, lightly. He showed the direction.

A street, another street, a little down, around the corner. Christmas knew where he was in Prague, even though his Prague wasn't quite the same as Hamburger's. He knew it with his body, his steps, and an elephant's memory. Hamburger didn't know it and walked with him.

It was all right.

Around the corner was a small bistro.

Not Hot Grill. Another one. Smaller, narrower, with steam on the window, a plastic menu behind the glass, and Chinese characters on a sign next to the door. A Chinese bistro. Or Czech-Chinese. The lamp above the door glowed yellow. Behind the misted-up window, three or four silhouettes sat at small tables.

Christmas stopped by the door.

He looked at Hamburger.

Hamburger looked at Christmas.

Christmas wrote in Czech:

Will this do?

Hamburger nodded.

Christmas opened the door.

Inside, the scent of tea, boiled rice, and sauce. The kind of smell a small Chinese bistro has, where real food is cooked for real people. It was warm in there — differently than at Hot Grill. Small tables, paper placemats with Chinese writing, a laminated menu on the wall with photographs, Chinese names, and Czech translations written by hand.

Behind the counter stood a woman. Fifty or more, hair pulled back, embroidered apron, a look that greets customers with ready warmth.

She saw Christmas.

She said in Chinese, in the calm tone one uses when speaking to an acquaintance:

„Hái méi chī fàn?“ (Haven't you eaten yet?)

Christmas responded fluently, without hesitation:

„Gānggāng chī le yī diǎn, dàn hái è.“ (I've eaten a little, but I'm still hungry.)

Hamburger stood by the door and listened.

He didn't understand. But in Christmas's Chinese, in that fluency, in the way the words came out without a hitch, there was something else. In the Hot Grill it was the voice of a man who sounds like a stranger in his own body. Here, the voice was at home.

The woman behind the counter looked at Hamburger.

She said in Czech, with an accent:

„And your friend?“

Christmas turned to Hamburger.

Hamburger picked up his phone — and put it back in his pocket.

Not the phone. Not this time right away.

He looked at the menu on the wall. Then he said in Czech, slowly, uncertainly, but without escape:

„I — the tea. And that —“

He pointed at a photograph of noodles in broth.

A small table by the window. Steamy glass, the warmth inside and the cold outside, a layer of vapor through which only the outlines of the street, shop window lights, and silhouettes of people could be seen. Hamburger took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. Christmas took off his jacket too.

On the table were two mugs of tea that the woman had brought without being ordered. Hamburger picked up the menu. He looked at the Chinese names. The characters meant nothing to him. Only their shape, the strange beauty of Chinese script, where every character looks like a small picture. Then the Czech translations: pork snack, noodles in broth, rice with egg, fried tofu.

He pointed at one character.

Christmas wrote:

Miàntiáo. (Nudle.)

Hamburger wrote:

Try saying it in Czech.

Christmas looked at the display. Then at the menu, at the Czech translation next to the character. Then at Hamburger.

He opened his mouth.

Silence.

Christmas closed his mouth.

It's not working.

Hamburger wrote:

All right.

Christmas looked at those words.

Hamburger wrote again, slowly:

I'll read it here. You tell it to me in Chinese. We'll both look like fools.

Christmas read it. This time he smiled more.

Hamburger picked up the menu. He looked at the character.

"Mjan-tiao?"

Christmas laughed. Hamburger laughed too.

Sharing a laugh in a small Chinese bistro, by a steamed-up window, with mugs of tea on paper placemats.

"Miàntiáo," said Christmas.

The voice was Chinese, the notes correct, the pronunciation natural.

Hamburger tried to repeat:

„Miàntiáo.“

Christmas nodded.

Hamburger asked:

„Better?“

Christmas nodded a little and shook his head a little.

Hamburger pointed to another character.

Christmas wrote:

Cha. (Tea.)

Hamburger said:

"Cha?"

Christmas nodded.

Hamburger pointed to the mug.

"This is cha?"

Christmas nodded.

Hamburger picked up the mug and said:

"Cha."

Then he looked at Christmas.

“Right?”

Christmas nodded slowly and solemnly, like a teacher.

Hamburger said again:

"Cha."

Then he took a drink.

The woman brought the food — noodle soup for Hamburger, rice with egg for Christmas — and placed it on the table without a word. The bistro hummed quietly around them. At the next table, two people were speaking in low voices, not in Czech, not in Chinese, perhaps in Vietnamese, perhaps something else. A soft Chinese song played from the speaker.

Hamburger picked up the chopsticks. He looked at them. Christmas looked at Hamburger. Hamburger held them so that they crossed. He tried to pick up some noodles. He almost managed it, but they slid back into the bowl.

Christmas watched.

Chceš to ukázat?

Hamburger nodded.

Christmas reached across the table and pointed to his hand.

Here.

Like this.

Hamburger adjusted the chopsticks in his hand following the gesture.

Christmas nodded.

Hamburger tried it again and it was like a miracle, the noodle lifted and made it all the way where it was supposed to.

Christmas nodded solemnly. Then he took his own spoon and ate the rice.

Hamburger ate the noodles in broth. The broth was hot and smelled of ginger, soy sauce, and a flavor for which he had no Czech word. It was good.

They ate.

Hamburger thought to himself: this is it. This moment.

A thing you travel to another city for. A specific moment at a small table with noodles and chopsticks and Christmas opposite, who is eating rice with a spoon and occasionally looks out the window and then back at the food.

No big decision.

No thing that had to be named.

Only presence.

Hamburger picked up his phone:

I don't want to correct you.

Christmas frowned:

What do you mean?

Hamburger wrote:

Chinese. Czech. None of that. I don't want you to be different.

Christmas read it.

Silence.

Nǐ zhīdào ma… měi rén dōu chángshì ràng wǒ opravit. (You know… everyone tries to fix me.)

Hamburger read the translation:

I know. It doesn't work that way.

Christmas read it.

Then he wrote in Czech, slowly, like a sentence being put together with effort not because words were lacking, but because they were heavy:

You know that because —?

He didn't finish.

Hamburger waited.

Christmas wrote back:

Because somebody's always trying to fix you, too?

Hamburger looked at the question.

Then he wrote:

Yes. In different ways. Otherwise.

Christmas read it.

He nodded.

Hamburger picked up his mug of tea.

Ha.

The tea was still warm. He took a small sip.

Outside the window Prague at night — golden storefront lights in the snowy air, a distant tram, Christmas lights somewhere around the corner, the hum of the city that is always present and can never be heard all at once.

Christmas finished his rice.

Hamburger finished his noodles.

Empty bowls and mugs of tea, still half full, remained on the table. Christmas took his mug in both hands.

Hamburger wrote:

Thanks.

Christmas looked at the screen:

What for?

Hamburger wrote:

For bringing me here.

He motioned around himself — to the bistro, the small space, the paper placemats, the woman behind the counter, the Chinese characters on the menu.

Christmas read it.

Then he wrote:

Wǒ hěn gāoxìng, nǐ šel se mnou. (I'm glad you came with me.)

Hamburger read the translation.

I'm glad you came with me.

He typed:

Me too.

The woman behind the counter was wiping the counter, rhythmically and without haste. The other table emptied out. The people left quietly. Christmas a Hamburger were sitting at their table.

Christmas picked up his phone:

Bú yào ràng wǒ huídào. (I don't want to go back.)

Hamburger read it. He read it twice. He didn't know exactly what Christmas meant by that. Go back to the old language, the old way, the old life? But now he knew that a question wouldn't solve anything, so he typed:

You don't have to.

Christmas read it and then placed his phone face down on the table.

Hamburger placed the phone face down on the table.

They sat.

No phones. No translator. No sentences on screens.

A Chinese song was playing in the bistro — a different one, slower, more melodious, without any urgency.

Hamburger looked at his mug.

Christmas looked at his.

Then they looked at each other.

And so they stayed for a while.

Not for long. Just for that moment which has its own time. For the time of two people at a table, looking at each other and not looking away. It was neither pressure nor a test. Just presence, physical and concrete: a person sees a person, a person sees you, between you a small table, empty bowls, and half-full mugs of tea.

Then Christmas took his mug.

He finished his drink.

He set it back down.

Hamburger took his mug.

He finished his drink.

He placed it next to Christmas's.

Two empty mugs on the paper placemat.

Just like two empty cups at the Hot Grill before. Same thing, different place. A tiny anchor in an emotional harbor.

Christmas looked at the two mugs. Then he pulled out his phone and typed in Czech, slowly:

Tomorrow?

Hamburger read it:

Yes.

Christmas nodded.

He stood up.

Hamburger got up.

They paid. Christmas quickly, before Hamburger could reach into his pocket. Hamburger said to himself: next time me.

They got dressed.

Jacket, scarf. Christmas had a green jacket, Hamburger a dark one with a high collar. Hamburger wrapped his scarf around just once. He didn't know why just once. It just turned out that way.

Doors.

Outside was the freezing air. The snow was no longer falling, but the street remained white and the store window lights reflected golden in the snow.

Christmas se zastavil na chodníku.

He looked at Hamburger. Hamburger looked at Christmas.

Christmas took his phone and wrote the final sentence:

Is the hostel near here?

Hamburger wrote:

I don't know exactly. I'll find it.

Christmas nodded, pointed to the right, and Hamburger turned. They walked down a street in the December evening and Prague around them was golden and white and quiet. Hamburger walked slowly at that moment and Christmas beside him.

Say it softly.

When there are no words, but there are steps, two mugs side by side, two cities, and two people who each started from a different place and ended up beside each other.