"Meadowbrook Port?" Nadia's eyes widened.
Jayson nodded, cutting the engine. The car settled with a familiar groan, the sound of metal cooling in the late afternoon sun. "Remember this place?"
How could she forget? The busiest port in Portovena, always busy with the rhythm of commerce and life. The market sprawled before them, a patchwork of colorful stalls and weathered wooden booths. Locals hawked fresh seafood and handcrafted wares while tourists meandered through, cameras dangling from their necks. The salty air carried hints of grilled fish, coffee, and the unmistakable scent of oil paint.
"It's exactly the same," Nadia murmured, her eyes tracing the outline of the harbor. Fishing boats bobbed alongside sleek yachts, the water reflecting the amber light of approaching sunset.
Jayson watched her face carefully. "Well, not exactly. They expanded the east dock. And that café you liked closed down."
"Milano's?" Her eyes widened slightly. "The one with the hazelnut espresso?"
"Afraid so. Owner retired to Estonia last summer." He pushed open his door. "But that bakery you used to raid for those almond cookies is still going strong."
The market was more crowded than usual for this time of day. Local artists had set up their temporary galleries—canvases propped on easels, sculptures displayed on draped tables. 
Nadia had painted here once. With fire in her heart and red on her hands. To her surprise, Jayson still remembered that.
"That spot over there," he said, nodding toward a corner near the fountain, "that's where you set up that day. The cityscape piece."
She looked at him sideways. "You remember exactly where I stood?"
"I remember more than you think," he replied, his voice oddly soft. 
Since he couldn't come openly investigating in a seaport during the day, he had to disguise his visit. Having learned that Lewis was shipping a container, he hoped to indirectly find out more details. The casual reminiscing was just cover—at least that's what he told himself.
They walked together through the market, close but not touching. Jayson's eyes constantly scanning the crowd, never fully relaxed even as he smiled and pointed out familiar sights.
"I forgot how much I loved this place," Nadia said quietly, stopping near the spot where she used to set up her easel. 
Jayson watched her eyes, the way they lingered on the spots where artists were working. The slight tilt of her head as she assessed a composition, the unconscious way she bit her lower lip when something caught her interest. Habits unchanged by time. "I didn't."
"Didn't what?"
"Forget," he said simply. "How much you loved it here. I'm sorry Nadi."
Nadia turned really looking at him "Guess you're ready to talk to me now. What's going on? You had scared me out of my wits yesterday and today you brought me to the port as though nothing happened"
"Nadi, the thing is Tyrone isn't who you think he is. He's working for Donovan along side my boss. And today there's a container they're clearing. Don't know what's in it yet. But I was hoping to find out that's why...we had to come here."
"More like a couple. I guess" Nadia smiled 
Their eyes met briefly, and something passed between them—a current of understanding, of shared history that neither had fully processed.
Just then Jayson caught sight of Tyrone, passing through the market towards the port. The man moved with nervous energy, his thin frame weaving through the crowd with practiced efficiency. He wore a light blue shirt that stood out against the crowd, making him easy to track.
"Nadi, wait here. I'll be back."
"Jay—" she began, but he was already moving away.
"Ten minutes. I promise," he called back.
Jayson rushed off, following Tyrone's trail. Tyrone had a distinctive walk—quick, almost skittish, with a slight hunch to his shoulders. As he moved, he looked behind occasionally, making sure nobody was following him. 
"Amateur," Jayson muttered under his breath, hanging back far enough to remain unnoticed but close enough not to lose his target. He pulled his cap lower over his eyes and adopted a casual tourist's gait—slightly meandering, occasionally stopping to look at merchandise.
Across the market, he snuck closer to the wharf entrance, watching as Tyrone approached a security booth. He couldn't get in without proper credentials, but from his position behind a stack of empty crates, he could observe the interaction. Tyrone signed some paperwork, gesturing emphatically as he spoke to the guard.
"Need this processed today," Tyrone was saying, his voice carrying on the breeze. "Mr. Lewis was very clear about the timeline."
The guard nodded, examining the papers. "Container number?"
"PRTV-9873-LC," Tyrone replied, glancing around nervously. "It's coming in on the Midnight Star. Should have docked this morning."
"Ah, yes. That's cleared customs already," the guard confirmed after checking his computer. "Your transport arranged for tomorrow?"
Tyrone nodded. "First light. Mr. Lewis wants it at the warehouse before noon."
"All set then," the guard said, stamping the papers.
Jayson committed the container number to memory, knowing there was nothing more he could do at the moment. He slipped away before Tyrone could spot him, stopping at a flower vendor's stall on his way back to Nadia.
"Your best bouquet," he said to the vendor, an older woman with weathered hands who regarded him with knowing eyes.
"For a special lady?" she asked, already gathering stems.
"A complicated one," Jayson replied with a half-smile.
The vendor nodded sagely. "Aren't they all, my dear? Aren't they all." She assembled a striking arrangement of local wildflowers and dark red roses. "These will speak when words fail you."
Jayson returned to find Nadia near the fountain, but now she was speaking with a young boy who was showing her his sketchbook.
"The proportions are good," she was saying, pointing to a drawing of the harbor. "But don't be afraid of those shadows. Make them deeper—see how the light creates those strong contrasts?"
The boy nodded eagerly. "Like this?" He made a quick adjustment with his pencil.
"Exactly," she said, and her smile was genuine—the first real one Jayson had seen since for a long time.
"You remembered it was Saturday," she said as Jayson approached, nodding toward a group of artists clustered near the eastern side of the market. She noticed the flowers in his hand but didn't comment on them.
"Art in the market. Every weekend." He shrugged, as if it wasn't significant that he'd remembered something so specific about her life. "Thought you could use the reminder." He handed her the bouquet awkwardly, like a peace offering.
She accepted it, her fingers brushing his. "Thank you." Then, after a pause: "Did you find what you were looking for?"
Their eyes met, "Getting closer," he said carefully.
Their conversation was interrupted when Nadia stopped abruptly in front of a large canvas. A woman leaping over shadows, the figure suspended in mid-air, caught between flight and fall. The painting captured that impossible moment of decision—the commitment to jump without knowing where one would land.
Her breath caught, just for a second. "It's beautiful," she murmured.
The artist, an older woman with silver dreads pulled back in an elaborate wrap, emerged from behind the display. She wore overalls splattered with paint and a serene expression that suggested decades of observing the world through an artist's eyes.
"You're an artist too, aren't you? I can tell by your hands," the woman said, nodding toward Nadia's fingers which were absently tracing shapes in the air as she studied the painting.
Nadia looked down at her hands,"I was."
"Was?" The woman raised an eyebrow, the motion accentuating the fine lines around her eyes. "Nobody stops being an artist, honey. They just stop making art."
The words hung in the air between them. Jayson watched as something flickered across Nadia's face—recognition, perhaps, or remembrance.
"Life gets complicated," Nadia offered by way of explanation.
The older artist laughed, a rich sound that drew attention from nearby browsers. "Life is always complicated, child. Art is how we make sense of the complications." She gestured to the leaping figure in her painting. "This woman? She's not running from something. She's running toward something. There's a difference."
Jayson observed the exchange silently, seeing something stir in Nadia that he hadn't witnessed in years. Something was still alive in her. He could see it in the way her fingers twitched at her sides, the way her eyes catalogued colors and shapes, automatically composing images even when she wasn't trying.
"How much?" he asked suddenly, nodding toward the painting.
Both women turned to look at him.
"Jay, no," Nadia said quickly. "We don't even have a place to—"
"How much?" he repeated.
The artist named a price that made Nadia wince, but Jayson didn't blink. "We'll take it."
As the artist wrapped the canvas carefully, Nadia pulled him aside. "What are you doing?" she whispered. "That's two months' rent."
"Consider it an investment," he replied. "In what might still be possible."
A saxophone player by the fountain had switched to a livelier tune, and couples were dancing.
"Dance with me," Jayson said suddenly, setting down the bouquet on a nearby bench.
Nadia hesitated. "Jay, we should get back."
"One dance," he insisted, taking her hand. "For old times."
She relented, allowing him to lead her into the small crowd of dancers. His hand rested lightly on her waist, keeping a respectful distance between them.
"Did you find anything?" she asked quietly as they moved to the music. "When you followed Tyrone?"
"Memorized the container number. They're moving it tomorrow morning."
"Found what's inside?"
"Not yet, but will soon "
She nodded, processing this information. "And the flowers? The painting? Is this all part of your cover story?"
Jayson's steps faltered slightly, then recovered. "Not everything is about the case, Nadi."
"Isn't it?" Her eyes searched his face. "Why else would you have called me after all years?"
The music swelled around them, and for a moment, Jayson said nothing. Then, softly: "Maybe I missed the artist with fire in her heart and red on her hands."
The song ended, and they stepped apart. The spell—if there had been one—broken.
"We should go," Nadia said, turning toward where they had left the car. But as they walked, she slipped her arm through his, and her hand found his, their fingers intertwining briefly before letting go.
Behind them, the market continued its bustling symphony of commerce and art.
On their way back, Jayson made a stop at an art supply store. The bell chimed as they walked in, and Nadia froze in the doorway, overwhelmed by the familiar smell of canvas, paint, and possibility.
"Jay, what are we doing here?"
He didn't answer, just led her through the aisles, picking up an easel, canvas, paintbrushes, and some paints. The clerk behind the counter greeted him by name.
"Detective Jay! Haven't seen you in here for a while."
Nadia shot him a curious look.
Jayson smiled slightly. "I come in sometimes. For gifts."
"For that niece of yours?" the clerk asked, ringing up the supplies.
"Something like that," Jayson replied, handing over his credit card.
Nadia waited until they were back in the car. "Was it really for Mirian?"
Jayson started the engine. "No"
"Then who—"
"They were for you," he said quietly. "Every few months. I'd buy something, thinking maybe I'd work up the courage to send it. Never did."
Nadia stared at him, but he kept his eyes on the road.
As the evening melted into gold, Jayson drove her to his place. It was bigger than she remembered. A three-bedroom flat tucked into a quiet estate near G.R.A. Spacious. Clean. Still smelled faintly of aftershave and old books.
Nadia stepped in like someone crossing a line she hadn't drawn.
"You can stay here," Jayson said, setting the art supplies down on the dining table. "I mean it. Until you get your own place. Or longer. If you want."
She turned to him, arms crossed defensively. "Why are you doing this?"
He didn't blink. "Because you need a place. Somewhere safe and hidden. Going back to the hospital wouldn't be wise at the moment."
Before Nadia could reply Jayson's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened.
"My boss. Chief Walter."
Nadia stepped back, the moment broken. "You should answer it."
Jayson hesitated, then picked up. "Sir."
The voice on the other end was loud enough that Nadia could hear snippets: "...where the hell... supposed to be..."
Jayson's face darkened. "Yes, sir. I understand. I'll be right there."
He hung up and turned to Nadia. "I have to go," he said quickly. "But stay. Please. There's food in the fridge. Hot water. A bed in the guest room." He hesitated. "It's safe here."
Nadia nodded.
He grabbed his keys and headed toward the door. "Lock up behind me. Don't answer the door for anyone."
"Be careful," she said softly.
A ghost of his old smile. "Always am."
And then he was gone.
Nadia closed the door, sliding the deadbolt into place. She leaned against it, suddenly exhausted. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—a text from the nurse saying her mother was asleep and comfortable.