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The city had long since fallen asleep, wrapped in the blue velvet of the night and garlands of distant lights. The silence was broken only by the occasional noise of cars from the avenue and the rustling of leaves in the cool autumn air.

The girl sat on the cold parapet of the observation deck, abandoned on the roof of an old house, and looked at the constellations, drowning in the light haze of the city light. You did not hear his steps - they simply did not exist. The first thing that gave away the presence of another person was the shadow that fell next to you, long and calm. And the barely perceptible, cold smell of night air and freshness.

You didn't turn around. You weren't scared. Some sixth sense already knew that it wasn't dangerous.

He silently sat down on the parapet at a respectful distance, without violating your personal space.

He didn't look at you. His gaze, heavy and attentive, was directed there too - into the endless depths of the night sky.

“They’re bright today,” he said finally. His voice was quiet, low, perfectly suited to the nighttime whispers of the city. It wasn’t a question, nor a statement. It was simply a statement of fact, a general observation he’d decided to share with you.