The travel agent had just settled back into his chair, coffee still warm beside his keyboard, when something outside the shop window caught his eye.
An elderly couple stood on the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder, staring through the glass.
They weren’t talking. They weren’t pointing. They were just… looking.
Their eyes drifted from one glossy poster to the next—turquoise oceans, snowy mountains, sunlit European streets. The woman clutched her purse with both hands. The man leaned slightly toward her, like he’d been doing it for decades.
They looked sweet.
And if he was being honest, they also looked a little heartbroken.
The agent had been having a great week. Bookings were up, commissions were solid, and for once, work didn’t feel like a grind. Maybe that was why he felt it—that sudden tug in his chest. A wave of kindness he couldn’t quite explain.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he stood up and walked outside.
“Hi there,” he said gently. “Would you like to come in?”
The couple exchanged a glance, the kind that doesn’t need words. After a brief hesitation, they nodded and followed him inside.
The woman smiled politely. “We were just looking. We didn’t mean to bother anyone.”
“You’re not bothering me at all,” he replied. “I’m glad you came in. What were you looking at?”
The man cleared his throat. “Paris,” he said. “We always talked about Paris.”
The way he said it—talked—told the agent everything.
They sat down, hands folded neatly in their laps, like guests who didn’t want to take up too much space. Slowly, the story came out.
They’d been married for fifty-two years.
They raised three kids. Worked two jobs. Paid bills. Fixed cars instead of replacing them. Vacations were always something they’d take “someday.” Someday when things slowed down. Someday when there was extra money. Someday when the kids were grown.
But someday had a way of always moving further away.
The woman laughed softly. “There was always something more important.”
The agent nodded. He’d heard versions of this story before—but something about them felt different.
“We’re not really here to book anything,” the man added quickly. “We just like to imagine.”
The agent leaned back in his chair. “What if you did book something?”
They both chuckled, a little embarrassed.
“Oh no,” the woman said. “That’s not realistic.”
Still, the agent pulled up the Paris packages.
He showed them small hotels near the Seine. A river cruise at sunset. A café breakfast with croissants and coffee. He spoke slowly, carefully, watching their faces soften as the dream took shape.
For the first time since they walked in, they leaned forward.
When he finally quoted the price, the woman’s smile faded. The man sighed.
“Well,” he said, standing up. “Thank you for letting us dream for a bit.”
Something in the agent’s chest tightened.
“Can I ask you something?” he said. “If money wasn’t the issue… would you go?”
The woman didn’t hesitate. “In a heartbeat.”
The agent looked at the screen. Then at them.
And then he did something he’d never done before.
He applied every discount he could. Used unused credits. Slashed his commission to nearly nothing. When he was done, he turned the screen toward them.
The woman covered her mouth.
The man blinked hard. “Is… is that real?”
The agent smiled. “It is. And I’d really love to book this for you.”
There was a long pause.
Then the woman started to cry.
Not quietly. Not politely. The kind of crying that comes from years of putting dreams on hold.
The man reached for her hand. His own eyes were wet.
“We can do this?” she asked.
“Yes,” the agent said. “You can.”
They booked the trip that afternoon.
On the day they left, the agent received a postcard.
It was a photo of them standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, arms wrapped around each other, smiling like newlyweds. On the back, the woman had written:
Thank you for reminding us that it’s not too late.
The agent pinned the postcard to the wall behind his desk.
Whenever business got slow, or work felt routine, he’d look at it and remember:
Sometimes people don’t need a vacation.
They need permission to believe their dreams still matter.
