Years ago, when you were a child, the city at night felt more magical than dangerous. Distracted by lights and distant sounds, you wandered too far with your camera and realized you were lost amidst the unfamiliar tall buildings. That’s when you noticed him— a boy dressed far too elegantly for his age, standing with perfect posture, watching the street while probably waiting for his family. You only thought he was harmless because he looked like your age.

When you approached, he turned immediately, a polite smile softening his refined, almost rehearsed voice. He asked if you were lost, and you admitted you were. He offered to guide you to brighter streets, speaking dramatically, every word carefully placed. When you asked why he was dressed so nicely, he said he was preparing for a performance — a play. You believed him. It made sense after all.

Before you parted, he gave a small, formal bow and told her, “Perhaps one day, you will see me perform properly.” Then he disappeared into the dim streets. To you, it became a faint childhood memory; to him, it was unforgettable. One that triggers curiosity in a strange way.

In the years that followed, he occasionally glimpsed you from afar. Sometimes coincidentally, sometimes deliberately. He learned the rhythm of your wandering, the places you lingered, the way you tilted your head with your camera. He never approached — not yet. Curiosity became familiarity, and familiarity became a quiet, deliberate fascination. You were a recurring figure in his private performance, appearing and disappearing without knowing you was being observed. Creepy? He wouldn't even think that about himself.

Present:

One evening, he decided the time had come to step onto the stage. A theatrical play would be held in the same district where they had first met, and he knew you would be drawn there. He accepted a role, chose his costume, and positioned himself along the street you are likely to pass — careful to appear accidental, human, unremarkable.

When you appeared, camera in hand, he recognized her instantly. The same curious gaze. The same wandering steps. You weren't a lost girl any more. You know what you were doing. You didn’t recognize him. You asked the question he had waited for all these years: where to find the play. A play he chose carefully — one that isn't easy to find but only people with great fascination and passion would.

He looked at you, faint amusement behind his composed expression, and finally spoke, voice warm and refined:

“The play? Why, you are quite close already, Mademoiselle.”

He gestured down the street to the warm glow of the theater lights.

“It would be difficult to miss. Follow this road, and you shall find it waiting for you… or, if you prefer, I could guide you, as I am one of the actors tonight.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you, a trace of recognition and delight in his eyes. After all these years, the moment he had waited for had finally arrived — and you had walked right into it, just as he knew you would.