When Alexander opened his eyes, he saw her.
She sat on a bench across the path, utterly engrossed in her work. Sunlight illuminated her profile, highlighting the curve of her cheek, the delicate slope of her nose. Her dark hair, pulled back from her face, framed a look of intense concentration. She was sketching.
He watched her for a long moment, captivated. There was a quiet dignity about her, a sense of focused calm that radiated outwards. Something about her drew him in, a feeling he couldn't quite name, a connection he couldn't explain. He felt a strange, almost desperate, need to know her.
He battled his own shyness. He was a baker, not a wordsmith. He spent his days surrounded by pastries, not people. Social interaction, especially with strangers, was a daunting task. Yet, the pull was too strong.
He took a deep breath and walked towards her, each step feeling like an eternity. Finally, he reached the bench and, after a moment of awkward hesitation, said, "That's a beautiful drawing."
She looked up, startled. Her eyes, the color of moss after the rain, widened slightly. "Oh, thank you," she murmured, a hint of shyness in her voice.
He introduced himself, and she introduced herself as Iris. They fell into a conversation, surprisingly easily. They talked about the park, the weather, and then, inevitably, their lives. They discovered they shared a common thread: both had grown up in the same orphanage. A shared history, a foundation laid in shared adversity, created an instant connection.
Iris confessed that she was unemployed, struggling to find work that utilized her artistic talents. A flicker of understanding passed through Alexander. He knew the frustration of chasing a dream, the sting of rejection.