The Stranger Who Felt Familiar

I wasn’t looking for anything that evening. Not connection, not conversation, not even company. I’d stepped into the quiet rooftop lounge only because the city noise below had worn me down. The day had been long, the air too warm, and my thoughts too loud. I just needed a place where everything felt still for a moment. And for a while, it worked. The soft jazz humming through speakers. The faint scent of citrus candles. The skyline stretching across the dark like a glittering ribbon. I sat alone at a corner table, nursing a drink I didn’t really taste, letting the breeze cool the back of my neck. Then she arrived. Not dramatically. Not with noise. Just… presence. A soft scrape of a chair. A shadow brushing across the candlelight. A faint scent of something warm and impossible to name—maybe vanilla, maybe cinnamon, maybe just her. She sat at the table next to mine, close enough that her shoulder was only a breath away from brushing the air around me. I didn’t look at her at first; I didn’t need to. Her presence settled into the space like she belonged there, like she belonged somewhere near me. Only when she let out a quiet sigh—gentle, almost relieved—did I turn. And everything in me paused. She wasn’t striking the...