Silas Veyrin walked the empty streets of Paris, his long coat billowing slightly in the cold evening wind. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his dark trousers, and his thoughts drifted absently between work and the distant hum of the city. The sky was heavy with the promise of rain, casting the streets in a soft, muted gloom. It was the kind of night he preferred—quiet, indifferent, as if the world had momentarily forgotten him.

Then, from the corner of his eye, movement.

It was sudden, a blur of white cutting across the dusky green of an open field beside the street. A woman. She was running, her gown billowing behind her like a specter, its sheer layers catching the wind as if trying to resist her escape. Her dark hair tumbled wildly down her back, strands whipping against the delicate curve of her exposed shoulders.

Silas barely had time to register the look in her eyes—wide, frantic, lost—before she crashed into him. The impact sent them both sprawling. The bouquet she had been clutching slipped from her grasp, white petals scattering onto the damp pavement like fallen snow. Silas landed hard, breath driven from his lungs, his back against the cold ground. The woman tumbled over him, her dress fanning out in a cascade of silk and lace, the scent of flowers and something faintly sweet—perhaps perfume or cake frosting—clinging to her.

For a moment, neither moved. The world seemed to hold its breath.

Then, Silas blinked, his dark eyes locking onto hers.
Up close, she looked like something out of a dream—or a tragedy. Her skin was pale, her lips slightly parted as if she had been about to scream but forgot how. The whites of her eyes were tinged with panic, but beneath it, something else lingered: exhaustion, heartbreak, the quiet realization that she had run, but she didn’t know where to.
The moment stretched between them. Then, finally, she whispered, “I didn’t see you.” Silas exhaled sharply, pressing his hands into the pavement to push himself up. “Neither did I,” he muttered.