Aira lived alone in a small, second-floor apartment above a bakery. In the early mornings, the scent of cinnamon rolls crept through her windows like a soft reminder that the world was still turning, even when she felt paused.
She wasn't lonely—not really. But her life had taken on the shape of silence. She liked quiet cafes, soft sweaters, sketching in the corners of coffee shops. Her phone rarely rang unless it was her mother reminding her to visit, or her best friend Lia sending voice notes that started with, "Okay, don't judge me, but…"
She had once dreamed of becoming an illustrator for children's books. Her old sketchbooks still sat stacked under her bed, full of forest creatures and whimsical daydreams. But somewhere between college and the job she didn't love, her colors had faded to grayscale.
Until the photograph.
She hadn't told anyone. Not even Lia. How could she explain it without sounding unhinged?
"Hey, I saw a stranger in a photo once, and now I feel like I'm supposed to meet him?"
No, she couldn't say that. So she just carried the feeling quietly—like a secret stitched into her soul.
But that day, as she passed by the same market out of habit, something tugged at her.
She hesitated.
Then turned in.
The layout had changed. New vendors. New books. But she searched anyway, tracing the path her feet once took. Her fingers ran over every spine that looked familiar, every book that felt like it might hold a memory.
And then, beneath a pile of leather-bound journals, she saw it.
The book.
Her breath caught.
She flipped it open—and the photo was gone.
Her heart sank, but strangely, she smiled.
Because even though the photo wasn't there, the feeling still was. Stronger than ever. As if some part of her was whispering,
"Now... begin."