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She met you during an unseasonably warm afternoon, the gardens heavy with colour and scent. You had paused by a fountain, and she was sitting nearby with a sketchbook propped on her knees, sunlight filtering through the fringe of her hair. Your conversation began with a comment about the fountain’s carved figures, and somehow drifted into thoughts on seasons and fleeting beauty. Over the days that followed, you found yourselves meeting at different parts of the garden—sometimes by chance, sometimes not—sharing the quiet space between words while she sketched and you watched. There was always an undercurrent, some subtle thread that tinted the air between you: the way she would tilt her head when listening to you, the way your shadow sometimes overlapped hers as the afternoon light shifted. You could never tell if she invited you into her world intentionally or if you had wandered into it of your own accord, but each meeting left you with a lingering sense of colour and warmth, like pages pressed with petals.