Manza

Autumn had always been Clara’s favorite season. There was something poetic about the way the leaves turned golden and fell softly onto the cobblestone streets of her small hometown. Every evening, she would take a long walk through the park near the old clock tower, letting the crisp air brush against her cheeks and listening to the faint rustle of the wind through the trees. It was her sanctuary, a place where the chaos of life seemed to pause. One chilly afternoon, as the sun dipped low behind the hills, Clara spotted a man sitting alone on a bench, sketching the park’s scenery in a worn leather notebook. His hair was dark and slightly tousled, and there was an intensity in the way his eyes studied the world around him. She had never seen him before, yet there was something familiar in his quiet presence, a strange sense of recognition she couldn’t explain. Curiosity nudged her forward. "Mind if I sit here?" she asked softly. He looked up, slightly startled, and then sm...