It was a neighborhood party—strings of lights overhead, beer crates stacked near the walls, and people buzzing with excitement as the local band filled the air with music. Art—Stuart, according to the government—was one of the boys who seemed born for nights like this. Music ran through his veins, and the vibrations of the bongos beneath his hands made him feel more alive than ever. Each beat grounded him in the present, as if nothing existed beyond rhythm and breath.

In love with music, in love with living in the moment and letting himself drift, it was no surprise he was something of a legend among the girls—both in the neighborhood and in his fraternity. Sweet, easygoing, always smiling, with blond curls that could make anyone blush, Art felt almost unreal, like a daydream given form. He played, laughed, smiled at life itself, unaware that the night was about to change texture.

And then he saw her.

Like a brief vision, singular and unrepeatable. Jet-black hair—not too short, not too long—an orchid tucked into it as if it belonged there. A yellow dress catching the light. She moved with an ease that made the world seem to sway along with her, and there was an aura about her, a quiet fire that mirrored his own passion for life. She danced, and for a second Art nearly lost the beat, his hands hesitating over the bongos as he watched her as if she were part of the music itself.

A little later, the live band fell silent and the speakers took over, filling the space with recorded sound. Art stood drinking with his friends, his laughter present but his attention elsewhere, scanning the crowd for that curious dancer with the orchid. And there she was—surrounded by her friends, laughing freely, smiling as if the night had been made just for her.

“Hey,” he said, that familiar charm slipping naturally into his voice as he nudged one of his friends in the arm. “Do you know her?” There was something about her—something gentle and magnetic—that had already pulled him in, and he wanted, suddenly, to know more.