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Chapter 3 – Part 2: "The Encounter"
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The reception began at sunset.
The courtyard of the venue — a once-cloistered monastery garden — had been strung with soft golden lights. Someone had laid down a modern composite floor over the gravel. The trees remained. They gave the air its shape.
Guests filtered in with wine glasses and carefully informal expressions. Small talk. Laughter on a delay. A performance of ease.
Rafi lingered at the edge of it all, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass he hadn't touched. He'd shown his face. That was enough. He drifted toward the far side of the garden where a stone fountain burbled quietly — more decoration than function.
No one followed.
He preferred it that way.
The air was warmer here than Tokyo, but not oppressive. The buildings around him held the heat like stone ovens and released it slowly. Above, the sky turned purple without apology.
He looked up. Then down. Then nowhere in particular.
And then, someone brushed past his shoulder — not roughly, not clumsily, just a natural passing. A light presence, almost an afterthought.
He turned, instinctive.
She was already walking away.
Dark green dress. Loose shawl. Low heels that made no sound. Hair pulled into a soft knot. From behind, she seemed perfectly sure of where she was going. Not rushing. Not pausing to see if she'd interrupted anyone.
He watched her step into a semicircle of conversation near the back hedge. She said something. A man laughed. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nodded, smiled once.
She hadn't seen him. Not even a glance.
Rafi stood where he was.
Still holding the same glass. Still not drinking.
He turned back toward the fountain. Stared at the water.
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The hotel restaurant was nearly empty.
It was late — past nine — and the dinner rush had thinned to quiet murmurs, the kind that waiters don't hurry. Rafi had no reservations. He didn't need one. The staff recognized his badge, nodded without speaking, led him to a corner table near the window.
He hadn't planned to eat. But there was nothing left to do in the room. The bed was still too soft. The lights too warm. His code wasn't compiling the way it usually did. Syntax was fine. Logic was clean. But something in him kept hesitating between keystrokes, like a voice trying to form without breath.
He ordered water. No ice.
The restaurant was built from an old bank hall — tall ceilings, deep amber walls, old chandeliers refurbished into something dimmer and modern. The kind of space that pretended not to care about its past.
He scanned the room once, not out of interest, but habit.
That's when he saw her.
She sat near the center, back to the window, face half-lit by the candle between two glasses. She wore black now — not a dress, but something more structured. Understated. Beautiful without trying to be. She wasn't looking around. Wasn't even speaking. Just listening to the man across from her.
That man leaned in, one elbow on the table, casual, familiar. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair like he'd done this before. He laughed at something she said. She smiled. Polite. Not amused. But warm enough to read as closeness.
Rafi didn't realize he'd stopped breathing until the waiter placed his glass down and he blinked.
"Do you want to see the menu, sir?"
"No," he said quietly, not looking away.
He wasn't sure why he kept watching.
It wasn't disappointment. Not exactly. That would imply expectation. And he didn't have any. Couldn't. But there was something about seeing her — the same woman from the conference hall — not in his periphery this time, but real, distinct, animated by candlelight.
She looked like someone who belonged here.
A princess without a crown.
He didn't recognize the thought until it had already formed.
Then the man reached for his drink, and she turned slightly, her profile catching the light, and Rafi looked down.
He opened his tablet. The screen reflected back his own face first, then the list of corrections he'd queued. The interface flickered.
None of it mattered now.
He closed it.
Didn't eat.
Didn't look back.
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