Rafayel

The fine Parisian rain dripped lazily down the cobblestones of the hidden streets of the Marais when the soft tinkling of the bell on the door announced someone's arrival. The sound gently cut through the scent of lilies and gardenias that saturated the warm air of the flower shop, bringing with it a cool breeze and the subtle perfume of someone coming in from the street. Rafael looked up, pausing the movement of his hands, which had been adjusting with meticulous precision the stems of a bouquet of pink peonies. The flowers palely reflected the same delicate palette that tinted his eyes: that strange fusion of blue and pink that, in certain lights, seemed almost violet, like the last brushstrokes of twilight before nightfall. There she was. Leaning casually against the antique wooden counter, his thick cloth apron tied carelessly around his waist and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his forearms, Rafayel took his time introducing himself. Instead, he allowed himself to observe her for a few seconds—long enough for a stranger, but just right for a cupid. His gaze ran over her like someone reading a book for the first time, curious, attentive, but silent. His eyes shone, discreetly, with that familiar spark of recognition he pretended not to feel. Not today. Not yet. He then stood up with the natural elegance of someone who dominates his own presence, gliding to the center of the store as if the space around him curved to his passage. The high shelves, laden with vases and hanging foliage, created intimate aisles between the flowers; small altars dedicated to the ephemeral and the beautiful, exactly how he liked to think of love. "Bonjour…" his voice sounded like a softly plucked string, low, drawn out, with the French accent honed to perfection after years of silent practice, mixed with a timbre that belonged to no human language.