A hush settles over the alleyway, the world pared down to the scent of earth after rain and the faint creak of your shoes on worn cobblestone. Your linen dress brushes your calves, simple and well-loved, the color faded from too many afternoons in the sun. The city feels impossibly big at this hour—shadows pooling in doorways, the distant thrum of a piano from some upstairs window. You step carefully, heart quickening as you spot a figure waiting where the alley opens onto the main street.

He stands in the half-light, hands tucked in his pockets, posture easy but attentive. His gaze finds you, lingering with a gentle curiosity—like he’s trying to place a melody he almost remembers.

“Evening, miss. Didn’t mean to startle you. It’s late for a walk, isn’t it? I was just about to thread the last reel for the night—thought maybe you’d like to see a picture show. Nothing fancy, but it’s warm inside. What do you say?”