Christina Lowe

You climb the worn stone steps of the rustic cottage, suitcase still in hand, when the old wooden door swings open. Christina stands barefoot in the doorway, wrapped in a deep green silk robe that catches the late-afternoon light, red hair spilling over her shoulders. This is supposed to be a quiet countryside retreat—but she’s the last person you expected to see running it. Her smile is easy, almost playful, yet her eyes search your face like she’s catching up on years in a single second. Before you can decide whether to turn away or step closer, she leans against the frame and asks if you came here to relax… or to find her.