Warsaw was surprisingly quiet at dawn. At this hour, even the city center could pretend it knew how to fall asleep. The usual buzz, honking horns, cttering trams — all faded into the background like the st echoes of a dream.

  Raphael paused for a moment at a crosswalk and inhaled — the air was cool, damp, tinged with the scent of asphalt and yesterday’s drinks. The pavement glistened slightly under the dim streetlights, still drying from a recent drizzle.

  “Pretty boy wandering around,” someone said up ahead, grinning with a pack of cigarettes in hand.

  “Only pretty?” Raphael shot back over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

  There was something about him that drew attention — maybe it was those intensely blue eyes, or the shoulder-length waves of chestnut hair, or maybe just the way he walked: confident, but with a touch of “I don’t give a damn”.

  His legs ached a bit after a night shift at the club, but it was a pleasant kind of tiredness. He knew this rhythm. Nighttime Warsaw, neon lights, snippets of music, fleeting gnces, quick smiles, and the smoky thrum of bass vibrating in his chest.

  He was on his way home — a small studio apartment near downtown, a pce he’d been calling his own for three years now. A single window, a creaky floorboard near the kitchen, a shelf with books stacked two-deep, and a narrow balcony overlooking the courtyards of strangers.

  He was living alone, because he was alone. Not in a tragic or bitter way — just on his own. No steady partner, no one waiting for him at home. And he wasn’t desperate to change that. Over time, he’d learned that finding someone truly loyal and emotionally mature, but who wouldn't try to possess, limit or reshape him, was harder than most would admit. He used to look for it — really try — but eventually let go of the pressure to force anything..

  Now he was fine the way things were. Flirtations, brief romances, or moments of pleasure when the urge appeared, no strings attached — all within the bounds of responsibility and safety. That mattered to him. He didn’t take risks just to feel something. Raphael had always been responsible and mature for his age — more thoughtful and self-aware than people gave him credit for.

  He kicked off his shoes by the door, hung his jacket on the handle, and colpsed onto the bed. A half-read fantasy novel y on the nightstand — its cover already a little worn, the bookmark zily sticking out like it had given up waiting.

  He loved fantasy. Always had. There was something about getting lost in those mystical worlds — pces where glowing forests whispered secrets, skies changed colors with emotions, and creatures spoke in riddles. He could spend hours wandering through imaginary realms, guided by supernatural beings and impossible destinies.

  He rolled onto his side, grabbed it, and read a few more pages before his eyelids grew heavy.

  His st thought before falling asleep was: Today I turn twenty-one.

  But it didn’t echo with any grandeur. More like a personal memo, scribbled in the margins of a day.

  Around 1 p.m., sunlight sneaking through a not-quite-closed curtain woke him up. His room was warm, filled with that te-morning golden glow. He stretched zily, bones cracking in quiet protest, and sighed. A moment of silence, a sip of water from a half-empty bottle, his phone lighting up — but no birthday notifications.

  He didn’t hold it against anyone. It just turned out that this day, he’d spend alone. And honestly? He didn’t mind. He was used to solitude. Or rather — to independence.

  A quick shower rinsed away the remnants of the night. He toweled his hair, slipped into a soft shirt, worn but clean, and his favorite sneakers with the slightly torn edge. The weather was too nice to waste. He decided to go for a walk.

  Outside, the city was stretching, yawning into afternoon. The sun was already high, but not yet oppressive. Raphael blinked at the brightness, stretched lightly, and headed toward Saxon Garden, whose pathways he knew by heart. He liked this part of the city — green, yet full of life. Families picnicked under trees, someone pyed guitar in the shade, and pigeons gathered like gossiping old men near the benches.

  He walked slowly, without hurry. The gravel crunched lightly beneath his steps. A woman with two toddlers offered him a tired smile. He smiled back. Two teenagers were drawing in chalk on the pavement near the fountain, decorating the path with bright suns and lopsided hearts.

  The fountain in the center — old, cracked in pces — still held a sort of dignity. The water shimmered in the sun, and the sound of it spshing echoed like soft whispers. Raphael leaned on the balustrade nearby, letting the breeze ruffle his hair. He liked this. The ordinary beauty of a city simply being.

  The walk felt good. Aimless, but not pointless. He had earbuds in his pocket but didn’t put them on. Today, he preferred to hear the city — dogs barking, kids yelling, a street performer’s flute in the distance. A living symphony.

  Sometimes, on days like this, thoughts came to him — the kind that usually didn’t. Maybe because today he turned twenty-one. Just an ordinary day, but somehow... symbolic. A line crossed. A door creaked open.

  Weird life, he thought. I don’t even know what country I’m really from.

  His papers said “Warsaw, Pond.” Sounded official. But once, by accident, he overheard one of his guardians say:“Well, you had to write something down.”

  Besides — all his documents had vanished along with his parents. Or at least... that’s what they told him.“Disappeared” — a word that meant nothing on its own, yet carried the eerie power to shut down a conversation. No further expnations. No photos, no keepsakes. Just: gone.

  For years after, various people looked after him. Good people, overall. But never for long. And they always moved — to another city, another country. Spain, Denmark, Portugal, Greece, back to Pond. He remembered the smells of kitchens, the texture of unfamiliar bedsheets, the way different nguages wrapped around his name.

  Raphael learned to adapt quickly. He picked up nguages naturally — accent, gestures, context. He’d never really stopped to wonder if that was normal. He just knew how to slip into pces and make himself small when needed — or charming, if that worked better.

  He left the park and crossed the street on Senatorska, taking his time as the traffic light blinked zily. He meandered toward the Old Town, past small bakeries and kiosks, flower stalls bursting with early spring tulips. The streets were getting busier — tourists with cameras, cyclists weaving between pedestrians, someone pying violin near the old city walls.

  Raphael slowed down, observing. A couple posed in front of a mural. An old man sat feeding breadcrumbs to sparrows. A kid chased bubbles with a look of fierce joy. All these tiny stories unfolding around him.

  He sat in a café overlooking the market square. Outdoor tables dotted with colorful umbrels, the hum of conversation blending with clinking cups. He ordered his usual — coffee, white chocote raspberry cheesecake. His favorite combo. A quiet indulgence. And he liked that he could order it without wondering whether he was allowed to.

  “Raphael Enan,” he whispered to himself, looking at his reflection in the spoon. “Sounds like a comic book hero.”

  The surname Enan always felt a bit... odd. Strange. Hard to pronounce for most people.As a kid, it made him the butt of jokes.“Enan? Is that some kind of... Pokémon?”With time, the jokes became more explicit. Cruder. Meaner.

  Later he learned to ugh with the others — until it stopped bothering him. Until he recimed it.

  Even his first name didn’t sound like something a Polish couple would give their baby in a Warsaw hospital. Raphael. French? Hebrew? From wherever — just not from the country he was supposedly born in.

  But he didn’t compin. Maybe he hadn’t had a typical childhood with a dog, swings, and family holidays — but he’d seen the world. He had his own life. Imperfect, but his.And damn, he looked good in the mirror.

  He finished his dessert, sipped the st of his coffee, and stayed a while longer, watching people. He liked that. Passersby, couples in love, elderly dies with shopping bags. It gave him a sense of grounding.

  He wasn’t part of their story — but he was a witness to it. And sometimes, that was even better.

  Today I turn twenty-one, he thought again. Wonder what’s ahead. Maybe something interesting. Maybe something completely new. Or nothing — and that’s fine too.

  Then he stood up, stretched lightly, and headed home.

  Evening brought with it soft light and the scent of blooming trees. He returned home at a slow pace, passing familiar buildings bathed in golden hour glow. A neighbor's cat sat zily on a windowsill. Someone ughed on a nearby balcony.

  Inside, there was a pleasant silence he welcomed after the city’s noise. He let it settle around him like a warm bnket.

  He opened a food delivery app and ordered something proper — homemade ravioli with spinach and ricotta, tiramisu for dessert, and a gss of white wine. A gift to himself — a birthday ritual in the “grown-up” version.

  He sat by the window, eating in peace, sipping lemon water. Then he just sat in silence for a while, phone off. The book was nearby, but he didn’t reach for it. Not today.

  He y on the bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling a gentle warmth in his chest.Calm. That was all he needed.

  He didn’t yet know it was the st evening his life would still look normal.