Sophia's POV
Sunday came with rain.
Not the violent kind. The soft persistent kind that made the city look like it was thinking about something. I stood at the kitchen window at seven in the morning and watched it come down on the streets below and thought about a bus stop and a metal bench and a night that had felt like an ending.
Rain looked different from up here.
From a bus stop it was something that happened to you. From forty floors up it was just weather.
I thought about that for a while.
Damien came in at six forty five with the reliability that had become the most dependable fact of my mornings and made coffee and came to stand beside me at the window.
He looked at the rain.
"Portugal will be warmer," he said.
"It's March," I said. "Portugal in March is not warm."
"Warme
