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...
