The rain had stopped, leaving a sheen on the cobblestones of the old European square. She sat on the edge of a fountain, her shoulders hunched against the lingering dampness, a half-finished sketchpad resting on her lap. Across the square, he was browsing the window of a small antique bookstore, his silhouette framed by the warm glow of the interior lights. He hadn’t noticed her yet. She’d been watching him for nearly an hour, captivated by the way he ran a hand through his hair, the slight furrow of his brow as he considered a worn leather-bound volume. A single, crimson leaf, loosened by the rain, drifted down and landed on her hand. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just kept watching, a quiet, almost reverent stillness settling over her. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them, separated by a distance, yet connected by an unspoken, fragile something.