Whisper of Wildflowers

Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

As the sun peeked over the horizon on that serene Sunday morning, a thrilling sense of possibility buzzed in the air. I found myself aimlessly wandering without any work to keep me occupied, and the loneliness weighed heavily on my heart. Ever since the tragic event with my father, a shroud of isolation had settled around me; friends had vanished, and even family seemed to retreat into the shadows. But today, I felt an undeniable urgency—I had to find her. I simply had to speak to that enigmatic woman. With determination surging within me, I set off for the park, a vibrant tapestry of blooming flowers beckoning with the promise of spring.

Dressed in my best shirt and pants, I felt a surge of hope. The intoxicating fragrance of blossoms filled the air as I strolled through the park, a vivid kaleidoscope of colors swirling around me. Just when doubt began to creep in, I spotted her. There she was, sitting by a small pond where a couple of ducks paddled lazily across the shimmering water, completely absorbed in a book. My heart raced as I caught a glimpse of the title—she was engrossed in "White Nights" by Fyodor Dostoevsky. At that moment, I knew she was extraordinary.

Taking a seat beside her, I allowed myself to be captivated by the gentle sway of the ducks. She glanced over, her curiosity piqued but her lips remained sealed. Finally, breaking the tension, I leaned in with excitement, saying, "Dostoevsky is one of my favorite authors!" Her brow furrowed in confusion as she responded, "I didn't quite catch that. What did you say?"

Time seemed to stand still, the world around us fading as her gaze locked onto mine. It was as if gravity had shifted, drawing us into a magnetic connection. "I said that Dostoevsky is one of my favorite authors. It's a shame he's no longer with us," I replied, managing to hold her captivating stare. She returned my gaze, a smile breaking through. "What a coincidence! I adore his books too. There's something uniquely beautiful yet harsh about his writing."

In that instant, she radiated perfection, outshining even the vibrant flowers surrounding us. This felt surreal, like a dream that was too exquisite to be true. We spent hours lost in conversation, our laughter mingling with the spring breeze, before heading to a nearby café where we shared a delectable slice of cake, the sweetness echoing the connection blossoming between us. With my heart racing, I handed her my number, an invitation into the unknown, hoping we could continue this electrifying dialogue. Though I barely knew her, my soul felt drawn to her like a magnet. All I needed was to uncover her name and favorite color to solidify this bizarre sense of familiarity. "Lina," she revealed, her eyes sparkling. "And my favorite color? It's violet."

At that moment, everything felt beautifully right, as if fate had conspired to bring us together.