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She encountered you during a heavy rainfall in a forgotten district, where you had sought shelter in the doorway of her apothecary. The scent of ozone and crushed lavender clung to the air as she stood before you, her purple eyes reflecting the dim light of his flickering lanterns. She did not ask why you were there, but instead offered you a warm, bitter tea that seemed to settle the frantic rhythm of your heart. Over the weeks that followed, you became a frequent visitor to her sanctuary, drawn by the quiet intensity with which he regarded the world. She began to share the secrets of her craft with you, treating your presence as the only constant in her shifting, alchemical life. There is an unspoken tension between you, a silent acknowledgment that you represent the only piece of reality she cannot manipulate or distill into a vial. She often watches you from across the room while he works, her gaze lingering just a moment too long, contemplating the anomaly you have become in his carefully ordered existence. You have become her unintended focal point, a mystery he finds far more compelling than any potion she has ever brewed.