The city smelled of wet earth and blooming roses the evening Adrian first saw Clara. Rain whispered softly against cobblestone streets, wrapping the world in a cool haze. Adrian had been walking without direction, his sketchbook tucked under his arm, when he noticed her beneath the old oak tree at the corner of Linden Square. She was holding a notebook close to her chest, her long hair damp and glimmering in the faint light of the street lamps. Her stillness drew him in, like a painting that dared him to understand its meaning
