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She was rearranging the magnets on the refrigerator again. Little Barcelona slid towards Venice, Paris moved for Lisbon—her map, the only one she had.Every morning began with this ritual. Fingers traced the Colosseum, the Leaning Tower. Eyes closed, she was there: eating pizza in Naples, lost in Barcelona's narrow streets smelling of sea and oranges. Rain drizzled outside, blurring the gray courtyard.She opened her laptop. The screensaver showed Iceland's Northern Lights—green and purple spilling across the sky. For a moment, she heard not rain, but ice cracking, a distant volcano.The bank notification came. Utilities paid. The image shattered.The magnets hung in place. The coffee was cold. Rain tapped monotonously.She smiled, not bitterly, but brightly. At the fogged window, she traced a line with her finger."This is just not my Venice yet," she whispered. "But someday, it will be."She straightened the Eiffel Tower magnet and flicked it lightly."See you soon."
