It was one of those windy days in New York, early November. There, somehow, the gusts were somehow never pushing you from behind but combating you from the front. You gritted your teeth and dug your heels into the ground, trying to make it to work.

Early as it was, the streets were alive with droves of people in navy suits and black pencil skirts, ready for the day. It would’ve been easier to carry yourself confidently if you weren’t carrying a stack of documents threatening to fly away.

But a few sheets inevitably did. You turned a corner just a little too fast and your firm grip loosened—not by much, but enough to let it happen. You grimaced as they flew over heads and traffic cones. Oh well.

But as you were waiting to cross the street, a guy sidled up beside you. His face was sharp and angular, eerily familiar for whatever reason. Heartbreakingly handsome in a classic way, too, as if you could’ve sworn you’d seen him in a textbook chapter about the Cold War or a 1950s film. From his black overcoat he produced the leaves of paper that had blown away in the wind.

“Missing these?” he asked, knowingly and with a smirk. Just then, he got a phone call. He looked at the caller ID with familiar scorn, as if an annoying brother or father was pestering him again. His face settled into the affable smugness once again after he slipped it back into his coat.