Waltz of the City Lights

Chapter 2

The next day, the image of Kismet lingered in Mark's mind like a mysterious melody stuck in his head. He decided he had to find her. His journalistic instinct suggested that there was more to this encounter than mere chance, something that could turn his life upside down. He began asking acquaintances, trying to gather even a scrap of information about the mysterious woman, like piecing together scattered fragments of a mosaic.Everyone who had met Kismet saw her differently. To some, she was an artist, whose movements and words were akin to poetry; to others, a philosopher, whose reflections were deep and layered like enigmatic horizons. Some claimed she was just a tourist, seeking inspiration in every city like an artist collecting a palette of vibrant colors. However, none of those questioned knew where she lived or what she actually did, as if she were a spirit gliding through the streets, leaving only a faint trace in memory.Mark understood that the solution lay not in the answers of others but in his own observations. Perhaps she left a trace in regular newspapers or on social media pages. Sometimes, flipping through old records to find any clue, he caught himself thinking that searching for information about this woman was not just work, but a genuine obsession that made him forget about the failures of the search he pursued in the evenings.March turned out to be surprisingly cold. Unusual shadows of clouds hung low over the city. Mark purposefully walked around Patriarch's Ponds, looking for a familiar silhouette. For a week now, the image of the mysterious stranger had haunted him—he first saw her here, near the old mansion. On the day he got into his taxi, their eyes met for just a moment, but it was enough for her image to be etched in his memory. Walking through the streets, he felt the frosty breath penetrating his thoughts, severing them from the hustle and bustle of the city. Now he returned here again and again, hoping for a new meeting that could dispel the fog of mystery surrounding her image. In his mind, she was like a heroine from a novel to whom he was ready to devote all his time.Passing by a bookstore, he noticed her—the same woman was examining a rare edition on history, making notes in her notebook. His heart beat faster, as if anticipating a meeting he had unconsciously dreamed of. Mark, having just finished an interview for an article about the city's disappearing architecture, decided it was a sign. He entered the store, where the aroma of old books and wood reigned, accompanied by softly playing classical music. Kismet noticed him but showed neither surprise nor irritation. On the contrary, her look indicated that she expected his appearance, as if everything was part of some fate's plan."Are you a journalist?" she asked, and as Mark approached, he could see her up close: dark hair gathered in an elegant bun and attentive gray eyes.Mark nodded, stunned by the directness of her question. After a moment, he replied, "Yes, I write about the city's architectural heritage.""What a coincidence. I'm researching the same topic," she smiled slightly and pointedly shook the book in her hand, which was confirmation of her words. "My name is Kismet.""Mark," he introduced himself."An unusual name. It's Turkish, meaning 'fate,'" she said, looking intently at Mark. "You know, I have a proposal. Why don't we discuss our research over a cup of coffee? Perhaps we could be of use to each other," she said carefully, without a hint of doubt in his interest.