𝙼𝚢 𝙵𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜

Story 11: Saudade do Sol - A Tale of Love 💘

Rain lashed over the cobblestones; each drop an echo of my artistic impotence. Porto, once a muse, now mocked me with its whispers of lost inspiration. Frustration coiled in my gut, mirrored by the storm above. I was waiting for a taxi at the pavement.

Suddenly, a flash of crimson sliced through the grey. Across the rain-slicked street, a woman stood defiant, a warrior queen under a scarlet umbrella. Her fire-kissed hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing eyes that gleamed like emeralds cut from lightning. A chasm of experience etched around those eyes surprised me; she was far older than I'd expected.

Her gaze, a direct hit, jolted me awake. In that electric moment, time fractured. Her emerald eyes held a storm of their own, a whisper of defiance against the world and the years that weighed on her. But beneath the defiance, I glimpsed a flicker of vulnerability, a yearning for something long extinguished.

She was beautiful, yes, but the allure stretched beyond mere physicality. It was the fire in her spirit, the defiant arch of her eyebrow, the hint of a rebellious smile playing on her lips. My heart leaped in my chest, a long-dormant butterfly taking flight.

Age on her face surprised me, yet I couldn't move my eyes from that mysterious beauty. My breath caught in my throat—a mixture of apprehension and excitement. But before I could blink, a taxi splashed through the puddles, skidding to a halt before the curb. Her scarlet scarf danced in the wind as she ran, dodging puddles, determination etched on her face.

Instinct took over. Throwing my worn backpack over my shoulder, I sprinted across the street, adrenaline pulsing in my veins. As I reached the taxi, she already had one hand on the door, her eyes wide with surprise. We met in the middle of an awkward tango in the deluge.

"After you," I blurted, gallantry struggling against the urge to grab the handle myself.

A ghost of a smile flitted across her lips. "No, you go. I was here first."

The driver honked impatiently, the impatient god of the storm. Her gaze held mine for a flicker of a heartbeat, then she tilted her head towards the back. "Let's share it. Unless you're afraid of sharing a wet ride with a stranger."

Afraid? In that moment, I'd share a rainstorm with a dragon if it meant spending another second in her gaze. I climbed in, the cab filling with the scent of her damp scarf, a mix of rain, and something faintly floral—an intoxicating bouquet.

"São Bento railway station," I told the driver, my voice husky from the sprint and the near-collision.

"Where you headed, miss?" The driver boomed, peering through the rearview mirror.

"Same," she replied, turning her head, and it was as if the sun peeked through the storm clouds, lighting up the cab with a smile that could charm the thunderbolts out of the sky.

The ride was a whirlwind of stolen glances and nervous silence. She was older; yes, her age was etched in the wisdom of her eyes and the elegance of her movements. But her spirit, oh, her spirit, thrummed with a youthful vibrancy that mirrored the lightning dancing across the night sky.

We exchanged names—Rebecca and mine, Phillips—through words spoken over the roaring engine and shy gestures in the cramped space. When we finally reached the station, the storm seemed to ease, its anger spent. We stepped out, blinking in the dim glow of the platform lights, the rain drumming a soft rhythm on the metal roof.

"Well," she said, a wry smile on her lips. "Thank you for the taxi share, Mr. Phillips. I hope your muse found shelter from the storm."

It was then, as the train rumbled into the station, its yellow carriages promising journeys afar, that I knew my muse wasn't lost; it was standing right in front of me. Despite the nervousness, I wanted to know everything about her and paint her story onto my canvas, stroke by stroke.