Nora didn't go to class the next day.
She walked past the gates of the university, her bag slung over one shoulder, but her feet didn't take her toward the lecture halls. Instead, she wandered aimlessly through the eastern garden — the one she always ignored — where the trees were older and the benches forgotten.
Something about the silence there felt closer to answers.
She sat beneath an ancient fig tree and opened her sketchbook.
The page was blank.
Not the one from before — she had left that untouched. This was a new page. A new start.
She let her pencil hover, uncertain.
Then she felt it — that quiet pull again. That same whisper of energy, like fingers gently guiding hers.
This time, she didn't resist.
Line after line, the pencil moved almost on its own. She barely blinked. Her breathing slowed. The world faded.
When she finally looked down… her heart nearly stopped.
It wasn't him this time.
It was them.
Together.
Nora and the man — standing in the rain. His coat around her shoulders. Her hand resting against his chest. Both their eyes closed. And in the background — a city blurred by the storm.
She stared at the drawing like it was a prophecy.
Because it felt real.
Not like a wish. Like a memory waiting to happen.
She traced her fingers over her drawn self, wondering what it would feel like to stand that close to someone she hadn't even met — to feel safe, wanted, warm.
That's when she heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft. Measured. Coming from behind.
She turned slowly, heart caught in her throat.
And there he was.
Not a dream. Not a sketch.
Real.
He stood a few feet away — same coat, same eyes. As if he'd stepped right out of the page.
They stared at each other in the quiet.
"I thought I'd find you here," he said gently.
Nora blinked. "Do I… know you?"
He smiled — that kind of smile that didn't rush, didn't beg. It waited.
"Not yet," he said. "But you will."
Silence fell again, but it was soft, comforting.
He looked at the sketchbook in her lap.
"Do you believe in connections before words?" he asked.
She nodded slowly, afraid to speak.
He took one careful step closer. Then another.
"I've been seeing you in my dreams," he said. "And now I know you've been seeing me too."
Her breath caught.
"How?" she whispered.
He didn't answer. Instead, he knelt in front of her, reaching out — not to touch her, but to close the sketchbook gently.
"You'll find the rest when you stop drawing… and start living it."
And then… he stood.
Offered his hand.
She hesitated.
Then placed hers in his.
And just like that, the moment unfolded — gentle, slow, electric.
She walked beside him through the garden, his hand warm against hers, her heart unsure whether to race or rest.
There were no more drawings that night.
Only stars above them, and something in the air that felt like a beginning.