The half i didn’t stay for

Written in Kotor, August 2025. Typed up today.

At six the light came through the shutters and drew a line across the stone floor. I had been awake since five, watching it move.

Kotor held the night cool in its walls until nearly midday. I booked three weeks in that room. I stayed one.

I packed on a Tuesday. The woman who ran the guesthouse was pinning sheets to a line in the courtyard, her forearms wet to the elbow. She didn’t see me carry the bag down the stairs. I left the key on the narrow shelf by the door, next to a bowl of dried lavender that had been there since I arrived.

The other two weeks are still paid for. Someone will make that bed on Friday and no one will sleep in it. I had written about how the town empties after five and thought I understood the quiet here. Then I left two weeks early and I still can’t say why. Not to the woman at the guesthouse. Not to myself.

There was a tabby that slept on the steps outside the bakery near the north gate. Every morning, flat on its side, one paw reaching for the shade. The baker swept around it without looking down. On my last morning a boy on a scooter slowed to avoid it and nearly hit the wall. The cat didn’t move.

I stood across the street with my bag on my shoulder and thought about going back to the room. I didn’t.

The bus south was full. A man in the seat beside me ate plums from a plastic bag and offered me one without speaking. I took it. The skin was warm.

I’ll tell you the rest if I remember it.