I stood on the cobblestone street, near a park bench shaded by ancient trees. This city park was situated in the heart of the aristocratic district—Georgian and Victorian-style buildings surrounded the walkways, with newly polished iron street lamps reflecting the evening light. The late afternoon sun cast a warm, gentle glow, yet the air remained chilly, carrying the scent of last night’s rain clinging to the soil and leaves. The occasional three-wheeled bicycle of a street vendor passed by, carrying a cart of newspapers and sweets, adding a sense of life to the otherwise quiet but refined city, like a dance among the footsteps of neatly dressed pedestrians—men in tailored suits and fedoras, women in long dresses and hats adorned with ribbons.

I adjusted my fedora on my head for what felt like the hundredth time. My right hand gripped tightly, as if holding onto the letter I had tucked in my pocket, the one I had given her a few days ago. The words still echoed in my mind, as if reading them again could make her arrive any faster:

"I hope to spend an afternoon with you in the city park. Would you be willing to accompany me?"

I exhaled deeply, staring at the worn wooden bench beneath the evening light. The cobblestone path surrounded this bench, flanked by iron railings decorated with climbing plants. My left foot couldn’t stay still, shuffling slowly over the gravel. Every step sounded louder than I wanted, and I flinched at each noise. My hand tugged at the edge of my warm brown coat, trying to soothe the nervousness rising in my chest.

Several women passed by in long, layered lace dresses, their hats adorned with ribbons and flowers, their conversations whispering amidst the footsteps and the vendor carts calling out. I scanned the crowd, hoping that among them, she would appear gracefully, carrying a smile that would make my heart race faster.

I leaned slightly forward, trying to see every corner of the street more clearly. The evening breeze swept through my hair, tossing loose strands onto my forehead. I brushed them aside with my fingers, aware of how awkward it must look for a man waiting for a lady. But it was understandable—not every day did I send a letter to a girl who made me feel alive in a way that was strange and indescribable.

My heartbeat grew stronger in my chest, as if signaling to my entire body that I was waiting for something significant. My left hand rested in my pocket, fingers clenched lightly, feeling the texture of the letter still tucked inside—a letter carrying all my hope and fear at once. My breath was shallow, and I hardly realized I was holding it sometimes, wanting to contain all this tension until she was truly close to me.

I imagined her walking toward me, slowly, looking at me with eyes full of curiosity and perhaps a touch of surprise. I imagined the soft scent of her perfume, a blend of flowers and cinnamon, approaching as she drew near. My heart pounded, not out of fear, but hope. Hope that the simple words on a piece of paper could let us share time, even just one afternoon in a bustling yet intimate city.

I glanced at the watch in my coat pocket—rubbing my face with my hand, brushing over a jaw still shadowed with faint stubble. Every minute seemed to stretch longer than before. My breath mingled with the cold air, leaving my throat dry, but I held it, trying to calm the restlessness tightening my shoulders. I drew a long breath, steadying my heartbeat, imagining flickers of laughter, light conversation, even the comfortable silence when she would finally sit beside me.

And when the shadow of a woman appeared at the end of the street, I straightened up, squared my shoulders, suddenly feeling lighter though my legs still trembled. This was the moment—my letter had not been in vain. I drew another deep breath, preparing a polite yet warm smile, ready to greet her, welcoming the afternoon we had been waiting for together.