Love at Duskfall

First Encounter

Sophia instinctively lowered her gaze and softened her voice. “Mary is my mother.”

“Ohhh,” Mrs. Smith dragged out the syllable, exhaling smoke as she spoke. She held her cigarette between thumb and forefinger and let out a choking swirl of haze. “Then what are you here for? I haven’t caused your mom any trouble lately.”

“She’s gone,” Sophia said. She had wanted to sound pitiful, but her literary skills were limited—and life had been relatively easy lately—so she couldn’t quite pull off the sorrow. She simply laid it out: “I have no money. Can you introduce me to a rich man?”

“I can.” Mrs. Smith didn’t hesitate. “But I am taking a commission.”

“How much?”

“Not much. $2,500—the cost of a boob job.”

Sophia asked, “Can I pay later? I don’t have any money right now.”

Mrs. Smith stared at her for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. “Fine. But you’ll have to sign a contract.”

“Okay.”

The deal was made. Mrs. Smith stubbed out her cigarette on the ashtray’s rim, licked her thumb, and pulled a blank sheet of paper from a drawer. She scribbled two messy lines in English—though the handwriting was barely legible, Sophia could make out the number: $2,500.

She took the paper and gave it a cursory glance, then signed her name in a practiced hand: Sophia Brown.

Mrs. Smith casually slid the sheet back into her drawer, as if that $2,500 debt was no big deal. Then she pulled out a thick, hardcover photo album and tossed it onto the table.

“These are my regulars,” she said. “Pick two that look decent to you.”

She took a few puffs from her cigarette and let out a raspy laugh. “Young people like you are always going on about ‘fairness.’ Well, this is fair—I’m giving you… what it's called… ‘Voting rights.’”

Sophia opened the album and began to flip through. One greasy, pudgy middle-aged man after another stared back at her with beady eyes and smug smiles. They all had bulging bellies and faces slick with oil. She wrinkled her nose as she flipped, but finally settled on the one who looked the least repulsive.

“Him.”

Mrs. Smith didn’t even lift her head—just rolled her eyes downward, caught sight of the photo, and chuckled.

“Oh, that one. He likes the schoolgirl type—not the ones who smoke, curse, and worship hippies. He likes sweet, innocent girls. I’ll set up a meeting tomorrow. And remember—no makeup. Dress like a virgin.”

And just like that, Sophia had sold herself—and was now in $2500 in debt.

The next day, she followed Mrs. Smith’s instructions, flagged down a taxi, and headed to the opera house downtown.

She rarely came to this part of the city—it was too bright, too noisy. Every woman on the street sparkled, practically glowing. She knew she was beautiful, but not so beautiful that she could outshine every other woman in America. That’s why she preferred to stay in her neighborhood, where she could be the “pretty girl,” rather than just another face in the crowd.

She stepped out of the taxi and passed a candy store. At the shop window, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass.

She wore a white dress that reached just past her knees—exactly the kind of “pure” length middle-aged men preferred. Her thick hair draped over her narrow shoulders, partly hiding her collarbone. With no smokey eye makeup, her face had taken on a surprising innocence—she looked, for once, like a real student.

Not like someone about to sell herself.

Sophia was an optimist by nature.

And to be optimistic is to avoid thinking too deeply.

She looked at her reflection for only a moment before turning toward the opera house.

The grand white building shimmered in the sun, its Roman columns supporting a high vaulted ceiling. The Stars and Stripes fluttered slowly in front. She stood at the entrance for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Bored, she opened a pack of gum and popped a piece into her mouth.

Just then, the opera house doors swung open.

Two men stepped out—side by side.

The first to step out was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, a round face, and a slightly overweight build. Yet thanks to his straight nose and full forehead, he wasn’t particularly unattractive—just within the limits of her acceptance. He was the wealthy man she had planned to cling to.

As for the other man...

Sophia blinked. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe, frozen in place.

For two whole seconds, it felt as if her heart stopped. Then, a wave of rapid, thunderous beats filled her chest.

She stared at the man's profile. A sharp, needle-like pain struck her ears. It took a few seconds for her to realize—it was the sensation of blood rushing, her skin burning hot.

She had actually started burning up—just from seeing a stranger’s profile.

But that man—he was too handsome to be real.

He held a cane in one hand and wore a long, charcoal-gray overcoat. Underneath, a black satin shirt shimmered faintly, its hem falling to his knees. His polished leather shoes gleamed under the light. He was tall—almost a full head taller than the middle-aged man beside him—and had to incline his head slightly to hear what the other man was saying. As he listened, he curved his lips into a faint, courteous smile—casual, almost indifferent.

That smile hit her like a blunt weapon, striking half her heart into numbness.

It wasn’t spring, and there were no blooming flowers nearby. Yet at that moment, just looking at him, she seemed to hear the rush of blossoms bursting into bloom.

Just then, a flock of white doves suddenly fluttered into the air, their wings blocking his profile. Her heart skipped wildly, like a child chasing a helium balloon across a plaza, stubbornly following his silhouette, her gaze clinging to him, unwilling to blink.

His eyes were a rare shade of gray-blue—aloof and detached, as if indifferent to the world. Yet his face carried a warm, approachable smile. Though fine lines crept around his eyes and the shadows beneath them were pronounced, his features were far from flawless. And yet, much like the armless Venus or the headless Winged Victory of Samothrace, those imperfections only deepened the intensity of his gaze, softening the cold edge of his icy irises.

Sophia stared at him—again and again—her thoughts in disarray, her ears buzzing. Aside from the escalating drumbeat of her heart, she could hear nothing else.

She didn’t understand what love was. Nor did she understand what people meant by love at first sight. All she knew was that this man exuded a presence that stirred her heart.

What kind of feeling was it, exactly? She couldn’t quite say. If she had to, it was like ice meeting fire, like a barren desert glimpsing an oasis, like a fish in the sea locking eyes with an antelope on the grasslands.

Sophia was a girl with a strong sense of self-awareness. Precisely because of that, she never fantasized about changing her fate through knowledge, nor about escaping the filthy neighborhood she came from. She knew she was destined to be a “bad girl” and had never even thought of becoming good.

But in that moment—that minute, that second—she was struck by an urge to be better.

Maybe it was because young girls are always prone to change. Suddenly, she didn’t think becoming a better person was impossible. Leaving that dirty, broken street didn’t seem so far-fetched. After all, in this vast sea of people, she had run into him. What else could be impossible?

In a daze, she followed him down the street, block after block, until he stepped into a luxury hotel. A doorman in white gloves and a tailcoat bowed slightly and pushed open the heavy glass doors for him. It wasn’t until his figure disappeared into the golden grandeur of the lobby that she snapped back to reality.

She stood outside, gazing blankly at her own reflection in the deep-blue glass. Compared to that man, she looked so young, so frivolous—like a little girl in a fast-food joint, l*****g a sundae. And he, calm and refined, radiated a kind of elegance that couldn’t be imitated. The only connection they shared was this: she had looked at him once, from afar, on the street.

And then?

There was no “then.”

At that thought, her fleeting desire to change dissolved like foam in the wind.

She stared one last time at the hotel, then turned around and walked away, hollow and defeated.