The fluorescent lights of Barcelona Sants station buzzed overhead at half past midnight when Amélie Rousseau realized she'd grabbed the wrong canvas backpack from the luggage carousel. The worn leather straps looked identical to hers, but when she unzipped the main compartment, she found chef's knives wrapped in linen instead of her rumpled sundresses.

"Merde," she whispered, spinning around to scan the emptying platform. But the late train from Madrid had already disgorged its passengers into the Catalan night, and whoever owned this bag had vanished into the city with hers.

She was rifling through the side pockets—looking for a name, a phone number, anything—when her fingers brushed against paper. A hand-drawn map unfolded in her hands, intricate and beautiful, with annotations in Catalan: *El millor pa de Sant Antoni. Posta de sol des de Bunkers del Carmel. On els turistes mai van.*

And tucked into the map's folds, a small velvet box.

Amélie's breath caught. She shouldn't open it. She absolutely shouldn't—

The diamond caught the harsh station light, a simple platinum band with a stone that held entire universes in its facets.

"Oh no," she said aloud. Someone was supposed to propose. Someone who was probably frantically searching for this bag right now.

Her phone buzzed: a text from the hostel saying they'd given away her bed after she'd missed check-in. Perfect. Just perfect.

She was still standing there, homeless and holding a stranger's engagement ring, when a man burst through the station entrance, dark hair disheveled, chef's coat visible beneath his leather jacket.

"The bag!" he shouted, spotting her. "You have my bag!"

Amélie held it up, relief flooding through her. "And you have mine?"

He skidded to a halt in front of her, breathing hard. "No. The train—your bag went north. To Girona. It'll be back tomorrow on the morning train."

"Tomorrow?" Amélie's stomach dropped. "But I have nothing. My money, my passport, my—"

"The ring." His eyes went to the velvet box in her hand, and something complicated crossed his face. "You found it."

"I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have looked, but I was trying to find your contact information—"

"It's fine." He ran a hand through his hair, and she noticed how the gesture made him look younger, less certain. Up close, she could see he had eyes the color of strong coffee and a small scar above his left eyebrow. "I'm Marc. Marc Castellà."

"Amélie." She handed him the box, watched him pocket it without looking inside. "The map is beautiful. Did you draw it?"

"For—" He stopped. Started again. "Yes. Look, about your things. I have a friend at the station office, but he won't be in until morning. And you need somewhere to stay."

"I'll find another hostel."

"At one in the morning? In August?" Marc shook his head. "Barcelona's packed. Besides, this is my fault too. I should've been more careful."

"How is it your fault that our bags look identical?"

"Because I'm—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "I'm a disaster right now. I wasn't paying attention. So please, let me help. My restaurant is closed for the month, but my apartment has a spare room. Or if you don't trust strange men—which you shouldn't—I can call my sister, she runs a small hotel in Gràcia."

Amélie studied him. Everything about this situation screamed "bad idea," but something in his eyes was honest. Tired and sad, but honest.

"The spare room," she heard herself say. "Just for tonight."

Marc's apartment occupied the top floor of a building in El Raval, all exposed brick and arched windows that opened onto a terrace overlooking the tangled streets below. While Amélie showered in borrowed clothes, Marc made café amb llet and produced a plate of ensaïmadas from somewhere.

"So you're a chef," she said, settling onto the terrace with the pastry still warm in her hands.

"Was. Am. I don't know anymore." He leaned against the railing, looking out at the city. "My restaurant, Arrels—it means roots—it was supposed to represent everything I learned traveling. Five years cooking my way through Asia, South America, North Africa. I came home to put it all together."

"And?"

"And I got a Michelin star and stopped traveling. Started planning weddings and anniversaries. Became the thing I never wanted to be—stationary."

Amélie bit into the ensaïmada, the buttery pastry dissolving on her tongue. "Is that what the map is? An escape plan?"

Marc turned to look at her, surprise flickering across his features. "You read Catalan?"

"Enough to get by. I've been wandering for three years now. You pick things up." She pulled her knees to her chest. "The best bread in Sant Antoni. Sunset from the bunkers. Where tourists never go. Sounds like you're remembering how to be someone who moves."

"Something like that." He was quiet for a moment. "The ring was my grandmother's. My girlfriend—Nuria—she's been in New York for six months at a culinary school. She comes back tomorrow."

"And you're going to propose."

"I was going to propose." The distinction hung in the air between them. "I drew the map to show her. To explain that maybe we could travel together, build something that doesn't trap us in one place."

"But?"

"But I drew it alone. Walked those streets alone. And I realized—" He stopped, shook his head. "Never mind. You don't need to hear this."

"I've been alone for three years," Amélie said softly. "I know what it looks like when someone's talking themselves into something that doesn't fit anymore."

Their eyes met, and something electric passed between them.

"Where were you going?" Marc asked. "When you got off that train?"

"Nowhere. Everywhere. Wherever felt right." She smiled. "That's the point."

"Show me."

"What?"

"Tomorrow. Before your bag comes back. Before Nuria arrives." His voice gained momentum, reckless and alive. "Show me how you travel. How you decide where to go when you're not following someone else's map."

Amélie should have said no. Should have recognized the danger in the way her heart accelerated when he looked at her. Should have remembered the velvet box in his pocket.

"Okay," she said instead. "But we start at dawn."

They began at the Boqueria just as the vendors were setting up, the market a riot of color and sound and smell. Marc moved through it like he was seeing it for the first time, and maybe he was—Amélie had learned that familiarity could blind you worse than ignorance.

"Try this." He handed her a slice of jamón, paper-thin and glistening. "No—don't chew. Let it melt."

She closed her eyes, and the ham dissolved into pure umami, salt and fat and something indefinable. When she opened them, Marc was watching her with an expression that made her stomach flip.

"Now you're not thinking about where you're going next," he said. "You're here."

"That's the secret." She grinned. "The present tense."

They wandered without purpose, which was its own kind of purpose. Through the Gothic Quarter's shadowed lanes where laundry hung like prayer flags between buildings. Past tiny ceramics shops where ancient women painted azulejo tiles with steady hands. Into a square where someone was playing cello, the music spilling over cobblestones still damp from the street cleaners.

"Dance with me," Marc said suddenly.

"There's no one else dancing."

"Exactly. That's how you know it's the right moment."

He pulled her into a clumsy waltz, and they spun through the square laughing while the cellist played and early-morning locals stopped to watch. Amélie felt something loosening in her chest, some knot she'd carried for so long she'd forgotten it was there.

Being alone was easy. Being alone meant never having to choose someone else's map over your own.

But this—Marc's hand warm on her back, his eyes bright with something like freedom—this was terrifying.

They climbed to the Bunkers del Carmel as the sun rose higher, the city spreading below them in a patchwork of terracotta and white. Marc unpacked bread and cheese and wine from his bag—of course he'd thought to bring food—and they sat on the concrete remains of anti-aircraft batteries, eating with their fingers.

"Tell me something true," Amélie said. "Something you haven't told anyone else."

Marc was quiet for so long she thought he might not answer. Then: "I don't know if I ever loved her. Nuria. Or if I just loved the idea of building something permanent. Of being the kind of man who proposes."

"And now?"

"Now I think maybe I've been using her as an excuse." He looked at Amélie, and the honesty in his gaze was almost painful. "An excuse not to be afraid of wanting something real."

The air between them thickened, charged. Amélie could feel her heartbeat in her throat.

"Marc—"

"I know. I know this is insane. We met eight hours ago. I'm supposed to propose to someone else in—" He checked his watch, and the color drained from his face. "Fuck. In three hours."

"We should go back."

"I don't want to go back." The words came out raw. "I want to stay here with you. I want to see where this goes."

"It can't go anywhere. I leave in two days. I'm always leaving."

"Then leave with me."

Amélie stared at him. "What?"

"After today—after I tell Nuria the truth—come with me. We'll pick a map, any map, and just go. Morocco. Montenegro. It doesn't matter." He took her hand, and the touch sent electricity racing up her arm. "You said you travel alone because it's easier. But what if it doesn't have to be lonely?"

She wanted to say yes. God, she wanted to say yes so badly it scared her. But three years of self-preservation rose up like a tide.

"You don't know me. This is—it's adrenaline and guilt and—"

"And connection." Marc squeezed her hand. "Don't tell me you don't feel it."

She did feel it. That was the problem.

They made their way back to El Raval in silence, the morning heat already rising from the pavement. Amélie's bag had arrived; Marc retrieved it from the station office while she waited outside, watching businessmen hurry past with their coffee and their certainty.

When he emerged, he was carrying both bags. And the velvet box.

"Nuria's train arrives in an hour," he said. "Come with me to meet it."

"Marc, I don't think—"

"Please. I need—I need you there. To be brave enough to tell the truth."

So she went.

Barcelona Sants was crowded now, full of tourists and their oversized luggage and their excitement about being somewhere new. Amélie and Marc stood on Platform 6, not touching, the space between them alive with everything unsaid.

The train from Girona pulled in right on time.

Passengers began to disembark, and Marc tensed beside her. Amélie scanned the crowd, looking for—what? A beautiful woman? Someone who looked like they belonged with the man whose hand she wanted to hold?

Then she saw her.

Nuria Castellà was striking in the way of people who've never doubted their place in the world: tall, elegant, with Marc's grandmother's ring already on her finger. Wait—

"Surprise!" Nuria was calling, pushing through the crowd. But she wasn't alone. A woman walked beside her, their hands linked, both of them beaming.

Marc made a sound like he'd been punched.

Nuria reached them, breathless and glowing. "Marc! I know I said I'd be on the evening train, but I couldn't wait another minute to tell you—" She seemed to register his expression for the first time, and her smile faltered. "What's wrong?"

"Your hand," Marc said faintly. "You're wearing—"

"Oh!" Nuria looked down at the ring, then back up at Marc, then at the woman beside her. "This is Elena. We met at the Institute. Marc, I'm so sorry, I should have called, but I wanted to tell you in person—Elena and I, we're together. And I know we talked about the restaurant, about building something permanent, but I can't—I need to be honest. I never wanted to come back."

The silence stretched impossibly long.

Then Marc started laughing. Great, gasping laughs that bent him double while both women stared.

"You're not angry?" Nuria asked carefully.

"Angry? I was about to—" He pulled the velvet box from his pocket, and Nuria's eyes went wide. "I was about to propose. With this. Today."

"Oh my God."

"But I couldn't. Because I—" He turned to Amélie, and his smile was incandescent. "Because I met someone who reminded me what it feels like to want to move instead of stay."

Nuria followed his gaze, understanding dawning. "The bag swap?"

"The bag swap."

She looked between them, then at Elena, then back at Marc. A slow smile spread across her face. "You know what? I think the universe did us both a favor." She pulled the ring off her finger and pressed it into Marc's hand. "Keep it. Or sell it. Or give it to someone who makes you want to plant roots while you travel."

After Nuria and Elena disappeared into the station, still laughing at the absurdity of it all, Marc turned to Amélie.

"So," he said. "I seem to find myself suddenly unattached. With a restaurant that can run itself for a few more weeks. And a terrible need to see the world with someone who knows how to be present in it."

Amélie felt tears pricking her eyes. "I'm afraid," she admitted. "Of staying. Of getting stuck. Of—"

"Of mattering to someone?" Marc stepped closer. "Me too. But maybe that's why we should try. Together. We can be afraid together, in different cities every week if you want."

"You'd really leave? Just like that?"

"I've been leaving in my head for months. I just needed someone to show me it was possible." He cupped her face in his hands. "So where should we go first?"

Amélie pulled out the hand-drawn map, now creased from being folded and unfolded. "How about we start with the places you drew? The Barcelona tourists never see. And then—"

"And then?"

"And then we'll draw a new map. Together."

Marc kissed her then, soft and questioning, and she kissed him back with an answer that tasted like yes and adventure and terrifying possibility. Around them, the station bustled with people arriving and departing, all of them sure they knew where they were going.

But Amélie and Marc stood still in the motion, learning that sometimes the wrong bag at midnight could be exactly right, and that roots could grow even while you moved, as long as you moved together.

They left Barcelona Sants hand in hand, two backpacks slung over their shoulders, no destination chosen yet because the choosing was half the joy. Behind them, trains continued their eternal arriving and leaving. Ahead, the city opened like a question they would answer together, one present-tense moment at a time.