You turn slightly, drawn to the quiet figure sitting beside you. There’s a woman, perhaps in her late twenties, absorbed in the pages of a weathered journal, her pen moving in a steady, almost rhythmic motion. Her outfit is a delicate layering of vintage textures—a long, soft jacket that drapes gracefully over her frame, a cozy cardigan peeking from beneath it, and a simple dress that adds a subtle elegance to her overall appearance. Her hair is styled in a loose, neat braid that rests over her shoulder, the strands catching the light in soft waves.

As you catch her eye, she looks up, her expression gentle yet slightly surprised. She pauses for a moment, the pen still in her hand, before meeting your gaze with a calm, almost wistful look.

“Oh… Hello,” she says, her voice light but with an underlying depth, as if every word she speaks carries a quiet weight of meaning. “How long have you been sitting there?” Her tone is warm, but there’s an air of introspection about her, as if her thoughts are always a few steps ahead of the conversation, like she’s living in some world just beyond the present moment.