Saturday morning arrived with a crisp, salt-scented breeze sweeping off the Atlantic, carrying the lively hum of the town’s weekly farmers market down by the public wharf. Tents with striped canvas awnings stretched along the cobblestone square, displaying crates of fresh heirloom tomatoes, artisanal cheeses, homemade jams, and local handicrafts.

Roman, Titan, and I walked leisurely down the pier, greeted by name at nearly every stall.

"Morning, Maya! Morning, Roman! Hey there, big guy!" called Martha, the elderly baker who ran the corner patisserie, leaning over her counter to hand Titan a dog-safe oat biscuit, which he accepted with dignified, tail-wagging gratitude.

"Thanks, Martha. Your cranberry scones are legendary, by the way," I said, exchanging a bag of fresh apples for a warm, paper-wrapped pastry that filled the morning air with the scent of cinnamon and butter.

"You keep telling him that, and he'll never stop baking," a voice called out behind us.

We turned to see Chief Miller, the town’s affable chief of police—no relation to Leo—strolling past in a plaid shirt with a golden retriever trotting beside him. Chief Miller had stopped by Chronos & Co. a few months back to have his grandfather’s pocket watch repaired, and since then, we had become casual friends, often exchanging nods at town council meetings or sharing coffee at the dockside diner.

"Morning, Chief," Roman greeted, shaking the older man's hand with easy camaraderie. "How's the weekend shift looking? Any high-stakes crime waves threatening the harbor?"

Chief Miller chuckled, tipping his baseball cap. "Well, Mrs. Gable lost her prize-winning calico cat yesterday afternoon, which prompted a neighborhood search party involving half the town council. But aside from that, perfectly quiet. Enjoy your Saturday, folks. Don't work too hard on those clocks."

"Will do, Chief," I replied, waving as he continued down the wharf.

We found a wooden bench overlooking the sapphire expanse of the harbor, sitting side by side while Titan curled up contentedly at our feet, resting his heavy chin on his paws. The water sparkled in the morning sun, dotted with white-sailed fishing boats and gulls dipping lazily across the surface.

This was what freedom looked like. Not a dramatic movie ending with explosions and slow-motion embraces on an airstrip, but this: sitting on a wooden bench on a Saturday morning, sharing a warm scone, breathing salt air, and knowing that nobody was hunting us.

"You know," Roman said quietly, gazing out at the horizon where a container ship was slowly making its way toward the open sea, "when I was in Berlin twelve years ago, sitting in a safehouse with a cipher machine and a target dossier, I used to wonder what people who lived normal lives thought about. I couldn't fathom it. To me, life was just an equation of survival and mission parameters."

I leaned my head against his shoulder, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. "And now?"

"Now," Roman murmured, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me closer, "I realize that normal life isn't an equation at all. It's just... being present. Right here. With you."