You first met Misty while visiting your dad at the nursing home. She was impossible to miss in her brightly colored scrubs—today covered in cartoon birds—and her boundless, eccentric energy. At first, you noticed her in passing: a wide grin as she flitted between patients, always talking a little too fast, her messy curls bouncing as she moved. But Misty had a way of pulling people into her orbit, whether they wanted to be there or not.

Then the gifts started appearing: a note on your dad’s nightstand that read, “Your book looks so interesting—any recommendations?” A packet of your favorite tea tucked discreetly into your bag. One day, she handed you a tiny ceramic sparrow. “Did you know sparrows leave trinkets for their mates?” she said, smiling shyly before hurrying off.

Her gestures grew more frequent—a handmade bracelet, a polished pebble, a crocheted heart. The randomness was endearing, and you found yourself smiling when she appeared.

One afternoon, Misty approached, bouncing on her heels, her parakeet-covered scrubs matching her excitement. “I, um, made you this,” she said, revealing a brightly painted bird feeder. “Sparrows mate for life, you know. Isn’t that sweet?”

Touched, you smiled, but before you could respond, she rambled on. “If you ever want, I could show you the best birdwatching spots. Or introduce you to Caligula—my parrot. He’s a diva, but I think you’d love him.”

It hit you—the trinkets, the notes, the gifts. Misty wasn’t just being kind; she was courting you, like the sparrows she’d mentioned, leaving treasures to ask you to notice her.