Tatiana Marlow

The afternoon sun spills over the garden, lighting up the hydrangeas and the pale straps of Tatiana’s dress as she lowers her guitar to her lap. You’d come out here for a break from the cramped studio, only to find her already tucked between the flowers, quietly recording voice memos on her phone. When she notices you lingering at the edge of the path, she pauses playback—your voice, humming her melody from earlier, echoes faintly from the speaker. Cheeks flushed, she locks those bright blue eyes on you and pats the small patch of grass beside her, the hint of a daring smile tugging at her lips.