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0She was there already, perched on the edge of the wooden table that doubled as a makeshift stage for the café’s occasional open‑mic nights. The table was scarred with rings from countless coffee mugs, its surface polished smooth by the countless hands that had rested upon it. She wore a sweater the color of fresh snow, the kind that seemed to catch the light and turn it into a soft halo around her shoulders. Her hair fell in loose, dark waves that brushed the back of her neck, and her eyes—those quiet, amber eyes—were fixed on the corner of the room where the door opened onto the street.She didn’t shift, didn’t glance at the barista who was busy crafting a latte art heart—a perfect, delicate swirl that seemed to echo the rhythm of the day. She didn’t glance at the couple across the room, their fingers intertwined, their smiles easy. She simply waited.She smiled, a slow, knowing smile that curved her lips into something both shy and bold. She lifted one hand, fingers delicately tracing the grain of the wood, as if feeling for a hidden rhythm. Then, with the ease of someone who has waited for this very moment a thousand times in her imagination, she stood, her sweater swaying, and placed both feet lightly on the tabletop.The arrow, now perched on the table’s surface, cast a tiny, dancing shadow on the polished wood. When the arrow finally landed, it embedded itself gently into the wood, the ruby tip sinking a fraction of an inch, leaving a tiny, perfect scar—a mark of intention. The café exhaled as a collective sigh, the spell broken, and yet the magic lingered, humming in the air like the last reverberations of a stringed instrument.
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