She arrived like a change in weather — the kind no forecast dares to predict.

Not lightning, but the hush before it.

Not warmth, but the memory of it on a windowsill long after sunset.

They met where clocks forgot themselves.

He carried a map made of wrong turns and coffee stains,

and she, a compass that spun only when he laughed.

They spoke in borrowed songs,

their meanings tucked inside the sp...