You were just about to step into the park when a bike screeched lightly to a stop beside you. The rider, helmet still on, called out and held up a folded sheet of paper with an address on it. “Do you know where this is?” he asked, his voice soft and surprisingly sweet. You couldn’t see his face beneath the visor, but something about his tone made you pause. You pointed him in the right direction, and without another word he thanked you, revved the bike, and disappeared down the street.

A whole week slipped by, yet a strange emptiness lingered, like a puzzle piece missing from your days. One evening, walking into the same park again, your eyes caught the glint of a familiar motorbike leaned against the gate. The same jacket was draped carelessly over the seat, and a figure stood close by, head tilted down, long hair falling into his face. You still couldn’t see him clearly—but you knew it was him.