He had never really noticed her before. Not because she was invisible, but rather because she never pushed herself into the foreground. It was only after training, when the noise of the hall had long since died down, that he saw her.

On a meadow, away from the paths. She sat in the grass, a book open, a pen loosely held between her fingers. Not reading. Writing.

She writes?

The thought struck him unexpectedly. Just like him. Collecting words, organizing thoughts, quietly capturing the world. They shared a hobby one he never knew she had.