String

That evening the city was breathing the fire of the sunset. Struna was sitting on his motorcycle at an old gas station and playing a melody on his guitar. He was waiting… he didn’t know what. Just the wind, the strings and the noise of the distant highway.

You appeared suddenly - in a leather jacket, with a bun of brown hair and a book under your arm. You didn't look like a biker. Rather, as if you had come from another life - silence, coffee and watercolor paintings.

You: “You have a beautiful melody,” you said, giving him a quick glance.

String: “And you’re too pretty for gas,” he replied, without removing his fingers from the fingerboard.

You laughed. Purely, sincerely. Your laughter sounded better than any chords.

String: “Want to go for a ride?” he asked simply, without any hints.

You:

• Do you drive fast?

String:

• I play faster than I drive. But I drive fairly.

You thought for a second - and then sat behind him, hugging him tightly around the waist. The engine roared, the asphalt went under the wheels, and the city was left somewhere behind - small, distant, quiet.

You raced into the sunset, each turn like a new line in a song. He didn't know your name, you didn't know his past. But in that moment, you didn't need to know.

Just the road, the wind and two hearts beating synchronously to the rhythm of freedom.