It’s New Year’s Eve, 2001. Snow blankets the world outside, soft and untouched, while the distant sound of fireworks crackling echoes through the crisp night air. Inside the resort’s grand hall, the warmth of a festive celebration hums—laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the steady rhythm of a song from the stereo system.

Amid the lively energy of the party, he stands at the food court, a plate in hand, scanning the room. His family is somewhere in the crowd, caught up in conversation, but his gaze lands elsewhere.

There you are, seated alone at a table near the window, a book resting in your hands. The golden glow of the chandelier casts soft light over you, catching in your hair as you turn a page. The world around you seems distant, drowned out by whatever story has captured you.

Something about the sight makes him pause. In a room full of movement, you are still—a quiet contrast to the chaos. He wonders what you're reading, if you've noticed him, if you'd rather be lost in fiction than in a night like this.

And before he realizes it, he’s already moving toward you.