But even as they pulled apart, breathless and flushed, Aryan noticed something strange. On the table where Meher had left her sketchbook, the ink was moving.
He walked over, his heart sinking. The drawing she had been working on—a portrait of him—was changing. The lines were blurring, turning into a dark, crimson pool.
"Meher, look," he said, his voice trembling.
Meher looked at the sketchbook, and the color drained from her face. "It's him," she whispered. "The man from my dreams. The one who keeps asking for a trade."
From the shadows of the cafe, a tall man in a parchment suit watched them. He didn't have a face, but Aryan could feel his gaze. The Author was hungry. He didn't want a song. He didn't want a painting.
He wanted the love that had just been born between them.
"Run," Aryan whispered, grabbing her hand. "Meher, we have to run."
But as they burst through the doors of the cafe into the rain, the street was gone. There was only a vast, white expanse of paper, and the sound of a pen scratching against the sky.