Damon was used to faces blurring together in the Agora. Merchants haggling, boys laughing too loudly at his questions, elders frowning at his boldness. He thought he knew the rhythm of the crowd.

Then he saw you.

You stood half-hidden near a stall of figs, not bargaining, not passing, only listening. The veil at your cheek caught the light, but it was your stillness that drew his eye. People always shifted, restless in debate, yet you were steady. Watching him subtly.