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The midday bells of St. Jude's had long

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since faded, leaving the old European town to

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sink into a golden, honey -colored hush.

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Clara walked barefoot inside her leather sandals, the

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soles of her feet pressing against the uneven,

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sun -baked cobblestone road.

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Every stone had been polished smooth by centuries

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of footsteps, carrying the warmth of the afternoon

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light straight up through her frame.

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She paused beneath a heavy, timber -framed overhang,

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tilting her head back to admire the historic

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buildings leaning cozily toward one another across the

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narrow lane.

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Intricate wrought -iron balconies webbed the detailed facades,

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framing rustic windows painted in deep forest green

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and faded cerulean.

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Above her, a riot of cascading flower boxes,

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red geraniums and trailing ivy spilled over weathered

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wooden ledges, releasing a rich, earthy perfume into

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the still air.

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Clara adjusted the strap of her satchel and

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turned a corner into a quieter alcove of

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the town.

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Here, the charming architecture felt almost theatrical, like

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a stage set frozen in a forgotten century.

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A lazy calico cat stretched lazily on a

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stone horse block, barely opening one eye as

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she passed.

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In this timeless haven, where the afternoon stretched

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out like an unhurried dream,

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Clara had nowhere to be and all the

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time in the world to get there.