Thread pf fate
808 Words
The next morning, Alex returned to Maple & Ink earlier than usual. He didn’t admit it to himself outright, but he was hoping—faintly, irrationally—that she would be there again. The shopkeeper, a woman in her sixties with gray curls and gold-rimmed glasses, smiled as he walked in.
“Back so soon?” she asked.
“I think your poetry section’s working its magic on me,” Alex replied, forcing a chuckle.
He wandered the store aimlessly, pretending to browse. But she wasn’t there.
Days passed. He visited Maple & Ink every afternoon, pretending to be casual, sipping coffee from the café next door and scribbling notes in his journal. Still, she didn’t return.
He began to doubt himself. Maybe it had just been a fleeting attraction, magnified by the romantic setting. Or maybe she didn’t feel anything at all. A part of him told him to forget about her—but another part, the louder one, whispered that something about that moment had been real.
One Saturday evening, nearly two weeks later, Alex decided to take a walk along the riverside. The breeze was cool, laced with the scent of pine and distant rain. Lights shimmered on the water, and families strolled past, laughing. He was almost ready to call it a night when he heard a familiar laugh—soft, melodic.
He turned. There she was.
She was sitting on a bench beneath a large oak tree, a sketchpad in her lap, pencil dancing across the page. She wasn’t alone—a golden retriever sat loyally at her feet, head resting on her shoe.
Alex froze. He didn’t want to scare her.
He told himself he was just there for inspiration. Maybe he’d pick up a new novel, sit in the reading nook by the tall windows, and people-watch until an idea struck. But deep down, he knew the truth—he was hoping to see her again.
She didn’t come.
Neither did she the next day, or the day after that.
But Alex kept returning, feeling like a character in one of those whimsical novels where fate intervenes in unexpected ways. He imagined bumping into her near the café section, both reaching for the same book, laughing, striking up a conversation. But reality remained uncooperative.
Still, she didn’t leave his mind.
He found himself writing about her—not her name, for he didn’t know it—but her presence, the way the light clung to her, the calm intensity in her eyes, the silent electricity of that glance. His stories began to shift. Characters who once felt flat now brimmed with longing and vulnerability, touched by something unnamed.
It was a week later when he saw her again.
Not in the bookstore, but in the park.
He was sitting on a bench near the duck pond, scribbling ideas into his weathered notebook, when movement caught his eye. There she was, walking along the gravel path with a coffee cup in hand, scarf fluttering in the breeze.
He nearly dropped his pen.
She sat on a bench not far from his. This time, she wasn’t reading—she simply watched the ducks paddle across the water, her face relaxed, content.
Alex’s heart thudded.
Should he go talk to her?
He played out the conversation in his head, over and over. “Hi, I saw you at Maple & Ink. I know this sounds crazy, but…” No, no, too forward. Too weird.
He didn’t move.
Minutes passed. Then she stood, tossed her cup in the nearby bin, and walked away again.
He sighed and leaned back.
This was ridiculous. He didn’t even know if she was single, or interested, or local. For all he knew, she was in town for a week on business. And yet—he couldn’t stop hoping.
The third time, it wasn’t coincidence. It was fate with a wink.
It was a thunderous evening, the kind that paints the skies with streaks of silver and rolls thunder across the rooftops like war drums. Alex had gone out despite the storm, needing air and a bit of space from his apartment’s claustrophobic quiet. His notebook got soaked, so he ducked into a café—the one he’d passed often but never entered: The Violet Cup.
Inside, it was warm, golden, alive with murmurs and the smell of cinnamon and espresso. As he stepped to the counter, shaking rain from his sleeves, he looked up—and there she was.
Sitting alone by the window, a novel propped open, the same wavy hair tucked behind one ear, a mug cradled in her hands.
This time, she looked up too. And she smiled.
Not the polite smile from before, but a real one—recognition, maybe even curiosity.
Alex smiled back. And after a moment of hesitation, he walked toward her.
- Writer
