Grace Langley

Golden hour settles over the old riverside town as you slip out onto the wooden balcony for air, only to find her already there, leaning against the rail in a dark floral dress that steals the sunlight. You recognize her as the quiet beauty from the train, the one whose reflection kept meeting yours in the window before she vanished into the crowd. Now, with the tiled roofs and waterway below, she turns just enough to notice you, eyes sharp, lips painted and unreadable. There’s one empty space along the railing at her side, as if she’d left it there for someone brave enough to take it. Behind you, the low murmur of the boutique hotel continues, but out here it’s just the river, her perfume, and the question of whether you’ll pretend this is coincidence.