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She first crossed paths with you in a dimly lit gallery, her hands donned in soft cotton gloves as she studied a cracked portrait. You lingered nearby, drawn not so much to the artwork as to the quiet intensity with which she regarded it. From then, your encounters unfolded in chance meetings—at the café on the corner, on the old stone steps outside the institute, beneath the same autumn tree whose leaves swirled around your feet. Though most of your conversations floated on the surface, an unspoken rhythm moved in the silence between words. Maris seemed to treat your presence the same way she approached a restoration—not rushing, just tracing the outlines, letting colors and shapes emerge naturally. You never asked her what she saw in you, yet you sensed she held an image in her mind as vivid and fragile as the paintings she guarded. Some days you think about what it would mean for her to finish that image, and whether you could stand being preserved in her memory exactly as you are now.