autumn – crisp and fresh – and for Claire Williams, this season always marked a change. As a writer struggling to finish her first novel, she spent most of her
ationships, she had come to believe that love – real love – was a fairytale made for others, not for someone l
til the day
ped low in the sky, giving the world around her a soft, dream-like quality. As she sat on a weathered wooden bench, watching the world pass by, she no
arried himself – as though he was lost in thought, yet fully aware of his surroundings. Or maybe
y looked away, embarrassed by her reaction. She wasn't the type to get flustered by a s
, his presence warm and inviting. For a moment, they sat in silence,
oice deep and smooth, breaking the silence. Clai
ied, her voice barely above a
od. "I'm James," he said, ex
His grip was firm but gentle, and she could
n ease to their conversation that felt natural, as though they had known each other for years, not mere minutes. And yet
ver the park, James stood up. "It was nice talking to you,
ing as he walked away, disapp
elt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just ma