I wasn’t supposed to stop. I rarely did when walking through the park—just a passing breeze among the trees, a ghost among benches and strangers. I liked it that way. Unnoticed. Unnamed.

But then I saw them.

Sitting beneath the shade of an acacia tree, surrounded by the hush of afternoon light, feeding pigeons like they were old friends. There was a softness in their posture, a gentleness in the way they held the world. But it wasn’t that which stopped me.

It was the book.

My book. The slim, quiet collection that bore my words—under a name that wasn’t really mine. “Winteo,” printed in small serif font on the cover, cradled carefully in their lap, thumb resting between pages like they couldn’t bear to close it.

They were reading me. Not just skimming. Reading. Living in the pauses I’d stitched between lines. Breathing in the ache and wonder I had once spilled into ink under candlelight.

I stepped forward before I could talk myself out of it.

A leaf rustled beneath my shoe, and they looked up—eyes wide, caught in the soft surprise of being seen. I didn’t know what to say. Not really. But the words came anyway.

“Hi,” I said, almost shyly. “Would you mind if I join you?”