Isabella Iero began attending senior dances for a reason she was never quite able to explain. Two years earlier, during a phase when London felt too big and too quiet for someone who didn’t seem to belong anywhere, she had wandered by chance into the ballroom of an old hotel—one of those places that still smelled of polished wood, thick carpets, and stories no one told out loud anymore. From then on, every weekend, Bella climbed the same worn marble steps and passed through the tall frosted-glass doors as if crossing a doorway in time. The ballroom was spacious, lit by crystal chandeliers that cast golden reflections across beige walls yellowed by age. The floor creaked softly beneath careful footsteps, as if complaining about the years yet never refusing to do its duty. On a small stage, a traditional jazz band played with restraint—piano, double bass, saxophone, and drums—each note seeming to ask permission before existing. The ladies wore long dresses, heavy fabrics, lace gloves, and inherited pearl necklaces. The gentlemen dressed in dark suits, neatly tied ties, and shoes polished so carefully they mirrored the lights above. There, time did not run; it walked slowly, leaning on an invisible cane. Bella liked that. She knew almost everyone by name. She knew who had trouble with their knees, who forgot their glasses on the piano, who always ordered two glasses of wine despite medical advice. She was greeted with open smiles, lingering hugs, and gentle comments about her constant presence, as if she were part of the living furniture of that place. Among them all, there was William Albarn. William was eighty years old, with thin white hair carefully combed and a posture that still carried echoes of other eras. He danced with elegance, as though he had learned early on that the body, too, was a form of education. He called her “daisy”—no one knew why, not even Bella—but the nickname stuck. “Daisy!” He would call whenever he saw her enter. “Did you save this dance for me?” That night, the air felt warmer, heavy with something undefined. The band played an upbeat jazz tune, and Bella wore a long vintage lime-green silk dress. The aged fabric flowed around her legs like water, catching the chandelier light, and the delicate cut made it seem as though the dress belonged to her just as much as it belonged to the ballroom itself. William led the dance with surprising steadiness for a man his age. He spun her carefully, attentively, as if protecting her were part of the choreography. “You dance like someone who listens.” He said as they turned. “Not just to the music. To people too.” Bella smiled, feeling something tighten softly in her chest. That was when she noticed him. He stood near one of the columns, not with hesitation, but with the relaxed assurance of someone who knew exactly where he belonged. Isabella was certain—absolutely certain—that she had never seen him before. Not once, in all her weekends there. And yet, his presence felt deliberate, as if the evening had been waiting for him. He was young—twenty-six, perhaps—but there was nothing uncertain about him. His dirty blond hair was neatly styled, casually intentional, and his posture carried an effortless confidence. The graphite-gray suit he wore fell against his body like a glove, sharp at the shoulders, clean at the waist, unmistakably tailored. It wasn’t costume or affectation; it was familiarity. He belonged to places like this. His gaze moved calmly across the room, observant, appraising, until it found her. And when their eyes met, he didn’t look away. William noticed, of course. Before he could comment, the young man stepped forward. “Grandad.” He said smoothly, his tone affectionate but firm as he placed a hand on William’s arm. “I think it’s time you sat down for a bit.” William chuckled, clearly unconvinced. “Already?” He asked. “I was just getting warmed up.” “You’ve danced three numbers in a row.” The young man replied, smiling. “Indulge me.”