The rain slowed to a drizzle, but inside the small café, the air was warm and alive. Klaus still held the
poem Tulip had given him, the words echoing softly in his mind. He looked up, meeting her eyes again —
bright, open, and kind.
"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice rough from disuse. "I haven't… read anything like that in a long
time."
Tulip smiled, a hint of relief shining through. "Poetry has a way of speaking to places words can't always
reach."
They talked for hours — about books, dreams, the unbearable weight of expectations, and the comfort
found in the small, quiet moments others often overlooked.
Klaus found himself laughing, something he hadn't done in what felt like forever. Tulip listened intently,
sharing her own stories — her heartbreak from a betrayal, her stubborn hope to move on, and the small
joys that made life bearable.
There was a natural rhythm to their conversation, an unspoken understanding that made the world outside fade away.
When it was time to leave, Klaus surprised himself by asking, "Can I see you again?"
Tulip hesitated, then nodded. "I'd like that."
For the first time in months, Klaus walked out into the evening with a lightness in his step, the flicker of
something new stirring inside him — hope
There was a natural rhythm to their conversation, an unspoken understanding that made the world