INTRO

At eleven forty-seven at night, I stood in the middle of a rain-soaked pavement on Chmielna Street, watching a man in a dark jacket disconnect the power to the neon sign I intended to bring back to life.

I didn't know him. I didn't even know his name. What I did know was that, in fourteen hours, I was supposed to present a restoration proposal to the festival committee. I had spent three months working on it, and whether my little studio survived the winter depended on its success.

"Excuse me!" I called, stepping around a puddle. "What exactly are you doing?"

The man didn't turn around immediately. He finished checking a cable, put his meter back in its case, and only then looked at me. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, with dark hair dampened by the rain and the face of someone who didn't consider late-night emergencies particularly unusual. Instead of answering, he glanced at my shoes, then at the roll of drawings protruding from my bag.

"Are you trying to get across that puddle, or are you interrogating me?"

"That depends on whether you intend to answer."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"I'm making the installation safe."

"The installation that was supposed to remain untouched until Monday's inspection."

This time, he studied me more carefully.

"Are you from the city authorities?"

"No. Laura Olsza. Olsza Neon Studio."

I said the name with the confidence I'd developed through countless client meetings. I wanted it to sound like a company employing a dozen people, not a studio housed in a former sewing workshop in Praga, where I designed everything myself, issued invoices, and occasionally fixed a leaking tap.

"Michał Grot," he introduced himself. "Historic lighting conservation."

He didn't offer his hand. He was wearing work gloves, and I had a paper folder tucked beneath my arm to protect it from the rain.

"Who sent you?"

"The building manager. Someone reported a short circuit yesterday."

I looked up at the old red sign hanging above the former restaurant. The neon that had advertised Jutrzenka for forty years had long since stopped glowing in its entirety. What remained were four distinctive letters and the outline of a cocktail glass, inside which a small star had once been meant to shine. I knew every crack in the glass. For weeks, I'd pored over archival photographs, compared shades of red, searched for old wiring diagrams, and spoken to people who remembered the restaurant before it closed.

"That installation wasn't live," I said.

Michał removed one glove.

"The main section wasn't. Someone connected a temporary power supply to part of the circuit. The cable was wet. I wasn't going to wait for someone to discover that by touching it."

I didn't like his tone. I liked even less that I couldn't immediately challenge his decision.

"I have the technical documentation," I announced.

"I'd be happy to see it."

I pulled out the folder, but just as I tried to spread the drawings across a metal equipment case, a gust of wind lifted the first sheet. Michał caught it before I could. Holding the paper steady with both hands, he angled it toward the light spilling from a nearby shop window so he could read the markings.

I stood close enough to smell the rain-soaked cotton of his jacket and something faintly resinous beneath it. He didn't move away, although our shoulders almost touched. Instead, he pointed to a small detail on the diagram.

"You're planning to recreate the original layout here?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because that's how it looked in 1986."

"And should it still be built the same way now?"

I glanced at him.

"You're a conservator of historic installations, and you're asking me why the original should be preserved?"

"I'm asking whether you want to preserve its appearance or its old electrical system. Those are two different things."

He was right. I knew perfectly well that he was right, which made his observation even more irritating. Not because he was correcting my design, but because he'd spotted its weakest point within minutes, something I'd been looking at for weeks.

"I want people to see this neon the way they remember it," I said, more calmly. "Without pretending that everything old needs to be replaced with something new."

Michał looked up from the drawing.

"Then perhaps we agree."

There was something strangely personal about the way he said we. It didn't sound like a proposal for a professional collaboration. It sounded more like the beginning of a conversation we hadn't yet finished.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. A message appeared from Magda, my best friend and the only person who knew how much running my studio really cost me.

Don't stay there all night. Tomorrow you're supposed to convince them, not die beside a neon sign.

I smiled despite myself.

"Good news?" Michał asked.

"A warning from someone who knows my tendency to overdo things."

"Sounds like a sensible person."

"Not always. She once advised me to go on a date with an accountant because apparently I needed stability."

"And?"

"He spent the entire evening talking about cost optimization."

Michał laughed quietly. The sound didn't fit his earlier reserve at all. It was warm and easy, and for a moment I stopped thinking about my presentation, outstanding invoices, and the date my rent was due.

"Sounds like someone who might be useful to you."

"I'd rather pay for accounting services than have dinner with them."

He gave me an amused look but said nothing. That effortless silence surprised me more than another joke would have. The men I'd allowed into my life usually tried to fill every pause with words. Michał simply returned his attention to the drawings.

Eventually, he pointed to a stamp on one of the sheets.

"Do the organizers know you want your studio's name on the information plaque?"

"Yes. It's one of my conditions for taking the job."

"Important to you?"

"Very."

He studied me again, this time without a trace of amusement.

"I understand."

I wasn't sure he did. Over the years, I'd been told far too often that I should be grateful for the chance to work on prestigious projects. It apparently didn't matter who designed the installation, who spent sleepless nights perfecting it, or who was held responsible when something went wrong. Someone else's face always appeared in the photographs. This time, I'd promised myself I wouldn't let my name be erased.

"What about you?" I asked. "Do you want your name included in the restoration credits?"

His fingers went still against the edge of the paper.

"It doesn't matter to me."

"Even if you're responsible for the most difficult part?"

"Especially then."

He answered too quickly for me to mistake it for ordinary modesty. We looked at each other in silence for a moment, the distant noise of traffic filling the space between us.

"That's an unusual attitude," I observed.

"Perhaps."

"Don't you like people knowing what you do?"

"I like knowing that what I've done works."

He handed back the drawing, carefully smoothing its folded corner. There was something about that small gesture that prevented me from dismissing him as yet another stubborn specialist who'd turned up solely to disrupt my plans.

The rain grew heavier. We took shelter beneath the narrow awning of the old restaurant. In the window, I could see our reflections: me in a beige coat, strands of hair escaping my loosely pinned-up hairstyle, and him, taller than me, with the sleeves of his jacket pushed above his wrists. Suddenly, we were standing so close that the slightest movement of a hand would have been enough for us to touch.

"There's something I need to tell you," Michał said.

I turned my head.

"I'm listening."

"If this neon is going to light up again, recreating the drawing won't be enough. We need to inspect the entire structure first. And there's a chance parts of your plan will have to change."

My fingers tightened around the folder.

"I'm presenting this project to the committee tomorrow."

"I know."

"How?"

"I was given the schedule."

He held my gaze. In the light from the nearby window, I could see tiny raindrops clinging to his eyelashes and a barely noticeable scar near his eyebrow. I found myself thinking that if we'd met somewhere else, without drawings and deadlines between us, I might have asked him entirely different questions.

"I'm not withdrawing my proposal," I said.

"I'm not asking you to."

"Then what are you asking?"

Michał glanced up at the dark sign above our heads.

"That you trust me enough to let me show you what you haven't seen yet."

I didn't answer immediately. Here was a man who, in the space of fifteen minutes, had challenged part of my work, thoroughly irritated me, and made me want to prolong a conversation I should have ended long ago.

I lifted my eyes to the unlit neon. Our reflections still lingered in the rain-streaked window, close together only because of coincidence and an awning too narrow for two people.

And yet, when Michał stepped aside to give me room, I unexpectedly missed his closeness.

Could I trust someone so determined to remain invisible when I'd spent my entire life fighting to be seen?

Chapter 1 - The Light I Refuse to Give Up

At eight fifteen in the morning, I discovered that spilling coffee over a presentation could look remarkably like a very expensive disaster.

The brown stain spread across the printed cost estimate, precisely where my studio's fee was listed. For a moment, I stared at it without moving, wondering whether the universe was trying to tell me something about my ambitions. Then I pulled the sheet from the folder, stuffed it into my bag, and opened my laptop. I had forty-five minutes before the festival committee meeting, and Michał Grot's voice was still echoing in my head.

That you trust me enough to let me show you what you haven't seen yet.

I didn't like people who could undermine my sense of control with a single sentence. I liked it even less that, ever since our encounter the previous night, I hadn't been able to stop wondering what exactly he'd meant.

"You look as though you're planning to murder a projector," Magda announced, walking into the café with two paper cups.

She placed a cup of tea in front of me and took the opposite chair without asking. We'd known each other since university, and for the past seven years she'd considered herself entitled to comment on every decision I made. She was usually right, which only made matters worse.

"I met a conservator yesterday," I said.

Magda raised her eyebrows.

"That sounds like the beginning of a story I shouldn't be hearing before nine."

"He disconnected the installation, questioned my wiring diagram, and suggested that parts of my design needed changing."

"So you didn't like him."

"I didn't say that."

"Which is exactly why I'm asking."

I ignored her smile and turned my laptop so she could see the visualization of the restored Jutrzenka. Red letters formed the distinctive sign above the entrance to the former restaurant. Beneath them, the delicate outline of a cocktail glass with a star glowed softly. The whole installation was intended to look exactly as it did in photographs from the 1980s, although I planned to use modern safety systems behind the historic appearance.

"If I get this commission, I'll finally be able to hire someone for the studio," I said. "And I can stop turning clients away simply because I don't have time to breathe."

Magda stopped smiling.

"I know. Which is why you're going to walk into that meeting and convince them you're the only person who should be leading this project."

I wanted to believe her. I was twenty-eight, had five years of experience designing lighting installations, and had been through enough unsuccessful negotiations to know that competence wasn't always enough. People liked my designs. They were less likely to remember who had created them.

When I entered the conference room at the offices of the Warsaw Festival of Light, Michał was already there.

He stood beside the window in a navy-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Without his work jacket, he looked different from the night before. He still had the same reserve about him, but now he seemed like a man who knew precisely how much space he occupied and had no need for an inch more.

He turned when he heard my footsteps.

"Good morning, Ms. Laura."

"Good morning. I see working at night isn't your only specialty."

"I occasionally function during daylight hours."

"That must be exhausting."

He smiled, but before he could reply, a woman in a light-gray suit approached us.

"Anna Radecka, festival coordinator. I'm very pleased you both made it."

She shook our hands and indicated our places at the table. Only then did I realize that Michał wasn't some random conservator hired to deal with a late-night emergency. A nameplate had been prepared for him, with the words Technical Consultant for the Restoration printed beneath his name.

"I didn't know you were on the committee," I said quietly.

"I'm not. I'm here to assess the condition of the installation."

"An important distinction."

"It is to me."

I sat down, trying not to show my irritation. Nobody had warned me that the specialist I'd met by chance a few hours earlier would be evaluating the technical solutions in my proposal. It wasn't necessarily a conflict of interest, but it was certainly information I would have preferred to receive in advance.

The presentation began on time. For the first twenty minutes, everything went according to plan. I showed archival photographs, described the materials, explained how I intended to recreate the lettering, and outlined the measures needed to protect the structure against moisture. I also presented an idea for a small exhibition documenting the neon's history, including the names of its original creators and those responsible for its modern reconstruction.

Anna Radecka asked practical questions. Two representatives from the city appeared interested. When I finished, I even had the impression that, for the first time in months, the ground wasn't about to disappear beneath my feet.

Then Michał spoke.

"Visually, the proposal is very well prepared," he said, drawing the documentation toward him. "The problem concerns the existing support structure and power supply. In its current condition, I can't recommend installation."

For a moment, I wanted to ask whether he really had to say those words in front of everyone.

"My proposal includes replacing the electrical system," I replied.

"I know. But the mounting points haven't yet been fully inspected. I can see signs of corrosion around two anchor points in the photographs. If the inspection confirms that, the structure will need modifying."

"That modification could be made without changing the neon's appearance."

"Probably. But I'm not prepared to sign an assessment based on probability."

Silence settled over the room. I looked at him and tried to separate my pride from the technical problem. He wasn't questioning my abilities. He was insisting on checking something that genuinely required inspection. Unfortunately, he was doing so at the precise moment when I needed unconditional support.

"Mr. Grot," Anna said, "can we complete the necessary inspections before production begins?"

"If we can access all the mounting points and take the measurements within a week."

"And if we can't?"

"I won't authorize the installation to be switched on without confirmation that it's safe."

He didn't say it aggressively. There wasn't even a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Nevertheless, every word sounded like another obstacle being placed between me and something I desperately needed.

"I suggest," I interjected, "that we give the design conditional approval and carry out the structural inspections in parallel. There's no reason to delay reconstructing the glass elements."

Michał looked at me.

"Provided the mounting arrangement remains open until the inspections are complete."

"Agreed."

Anna breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"Then we have a solution."

We weren't in agreement about everything, however. A few minutes later, while discussing the schedule, Michał requested the right to approve personally every element that affected safety. I couldn't allow that to become permission to alter my designs whenever he pleased.

"I need a clear division of responsibilities," I said. "I'm not going to run a studio where every aesthetic decision requires someone else's approval."

"And I'm not going to take responsibility for an installation whose technical specifications can change without my knowledge."

"I have no intention of concealing changes from you."

"Then let's establish which changes require a joint decision."

We looked at each other across the table for longer than the situation required. I noticed that Michał never interrupted me. He waited until I'd finished speaking, even when he clearly disagreed.

There was something disturbingly attractive about that. I was accustomed to conversations in which I had to fight simply to finish a sentence.

After the meeting, Anna asked us to stay for a few minutes.

"I need the two of you to work together," she said. "The festival begins in six weeks. Jutrzenka is supposed to be one of the main attractions, but I can't afford delays caused by disagreements between specialists."

She placed a draft contract on the table.

"Laura will be responsible for the concept, visual documentation, and reconstruction of the illuminated elements. Michał will handle the structural assessment, safety measures, and authorization to switch on the installation. Both of you will sign the final inspection report within your respective areas of expertise."

I examined the document. On the last page was a clause concerning promotional materials. The organizers reserved the right to present the restoration as a joint festival project, while the details of how individual contributors would be credited were to be agreed later.

"This clause needs to be more specific," I said, pointing to the relevant paragraph. "My studio must be identified as the designer of the reconstruction."

Anna nodded.

"Of course. We'll prepare the appropriate wording."

Michał said nothing. I merely noticed that he pushed his copy of the contract away and closed his pen.

I didn't yet know why discussions involving names made him so uncomfortable.

When we emerged into the corridor, I stopped beside a water dispenser.

"You could have told me yesterday that you were a festival consultant."

"I could have."

I stared at him in disbelief.

"And that's all?"

"I didn't know then that your proposal would end up on my desk. I was appointed earlier, but I only received the documentation this morning. I should have told you I was working with the organizers."

"You certainly should."

"I'm sorry."

He didn't try to justify himself with a lengthy explanation. Some of the indignation I'd been preparing suddenly seemed unnecessary.

"Next time, please spare me the surprises."

"I'll try."

"That doesn't sound like a promise."

"Because I don't promise things that aren't entirely within my control."

I shook my head.

"You really know how to make an ordinary conversation difficult."

"And you know how to turn an ordinary conversation into a negotiation."

I should have walked away. Instead, I smiled, and for one brief moment I felt less exhausted than I had all week.

Later that afternoon, we met again at Jutrzenka. The rain had stopped, but the façade was still damp. An employee of the building manager unlocked the entrance to the vacant restaurant.

Inside, the air smelled of dust, old wood, and the chill of unheated rooms. A section of burgundy wallpaper still covered one wall, while a solitary metal frame from an old table stood beside the window.

Michał unpacked his measuring equipment and showed me a place where I could safely observe the mounting points.

"I don't need to stand behind the safety tape like a tourist," I protested.

"I know. But until I've checked the structure, I don't want anyone underneath it. Including myself."

That final remark changed the meaning of his instruction. He wasn't treating me like an incompetent girl. He was treating me exactly as he would anyone whose safety he was responsible for.

For the next hour, we worked alongside each other. I compared the measurements with the plans while he examined the connections and photographed the points requiring repair. When we discovered a discrepancy between one mounting point and the archival diagram, I suggested moving the support outside the visible outline of the lettering.

Michał examined my sketch.

"That might work."

"That almost sounds like a compliment."

"It is a compliment."

"You should work on your delivery."

"And you should work on accepting the compliments you're already given."

I looked away so he wouldn't see me smile.

By evening, we'd agreed that I would prepare two possible solutions, while Michał would investigate whether any of the existing structural components could be reused. We had until Thursday. A collaboration I hadn't even wanted to contemplate that morning was beginning to take definite shape.

At the entrance, he handed me a small metal plaque he'd discovered behind a damaged panel.

"It belonged to the original manufacturer. It might be useful for the documentation."

The tarnished surface bore the name of an old workshop and a barely legible date.

"Why are you giving it to me?"

"Because you'll know what to do with it."

I accepted the plaque. It was cold and heavier than it looked. I thought of the people who had made the installation decades earlier, probably never imagining that someone would one day reconstruct their work with such care.

"Thank you, Michał."

It was the first time I'd used his first name without the formality that had kept us at a distance.

He noticed. He didn't comment, but his smile was different from before, a little gentler.

"See you tomorrow, Laura."

He walked toward his parked car, leaving me beneath the dark neon, turning the metal plaque between my fingers.

I had the feeling I'd just begun something considerably more difficult than restoring an old installation. Something I couldn't plan in advance or secure with a contract.

And for the first time in a very long while, that realization wasn't entirely unpleasant.