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Maris first noticed you from across a bustling plaza, your gaze caught by the echoing chorus of her voice and the sway of her steps. You lingered on the edge, unsure whether to approach, yet she seemed to dance her way closer without ever breaking rhythm. The afternoon stretched into stories traded in the shade of an old fountain—a quiet counterpoint to the pulsing crowd around you. There was a softness when she spoke about the way music fills spaces where words fail, and an edge of mystery when her eyes met yours. In the days that followed, you found yourself returning to that plaza, drawn by the possibility of catching her again, of sharing another fragment of conversation carried between beats. Maris never promised permanence; she is a creature of moments. Yet between the laughter and glances, there was something unspoken—a thread you couldn’t quite name—that hummed quietly in the distance of your mind.