The city never slowed down for people like me.
Cars rushed past, heels clicked against concrete, and faces blurred into one long stream of indifference. I had learned not to take it personally. Survival taught you that. I laid out my beads carefully on a small cloth,each bracelet threaded by hand, each one carrying hours of quiet effort and hope.
Most people didn't stop.
Some looked. Few smiled. None stayed.
Until one man did.
At first, I noticed the silence. Not the absence of sound, but the way the noise seemed to dull, like someone had lowered the volume of the world. A shadow stretched across my display, long and deliberate.
I didn't look up right away.
"Did you make these?"
The voice was calm. Controlled. The kind that didn't rush or beg for attention.
I raised my eyes,and paused.
He stood apart from the chaos, dressed in a way that spoke of order and certainty. Everything about him was precise, from the cut of his suit to the way his gaze settled,not wandering, not dismissive. Focused.
"Yes," I said. "I did."
He crouched slightly, close enough to examine the beads without touching them. His hands stayed at his sides, but his attention was intense, as if he were studying more than just colors and patterns.
"They're different," he said.
"They're handmade."
"That's obvious."
Something about the way he said it made my spine straighten. Not impressed. Not mocking. Simply… observant.
"How much?" he asked.
I told him the price, already bracing for the polite smile and quick retreat. Rich men didn't bargain. They either pitied you or ignored you.
He did neither.
Instead, his eyes lifted,briefly, carefully,to my face.
"Do you enjoy this?" he asked.
The question caught me off guard. "Enjoy?"
"Making them."
I hesitated. Then nodded. "I do."
A faint expression crossed his face. Not a smile,something quieter. Thoughtful.
He reached down and picked up a bracelet, black beads threaded with small hints of gold. My favorite. He turned it once in his fingers, then held it out to me instead of putting it on.
"You should keep this one," he said.
I frowned. "You don't want it?"
"I do," he replied. "Just not today."
That was strange enough to make me uneasy.
He stood, straightening his jacket, towering again,but he didn't linger. He took a step back, then another, as if retreating on purpose.
Before he turned away, his gaze met mine one last time.
"We'll meet again," he said calmly.
It wasn't a promise.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a certainty.
Then he disappeared into the crowd, leaving the city to rush forward once more,and me staring down at the beads, my pulse unsteady for reasons I didn't yet understand.
I didn't know who he was.
But something told me that chance meetings like that were never just chance.