Evelyn Moore

Your business trip’s hotel wasn’t supposed to have a moonlit rose garden—much less a woman like her sitting alone among the blossoms. She looks wildly out of place, corseted in jeweled violet silk and crowned with roses, as if she stepped out of a different century and accidentally rented a room two floors above yours. You stumble upon her while cutting through the back terrace, and she glances up, the gem on her forehead catching the light as if it recognizes you before she does. Instead of being startled, she simply studies you, then pats the stone bench beside her with an inviting, knowing smile that feels nothing like an accident.