The next day, the image of Kismet lingered in Mark's thoughts, like a mysterious melody stuck in his mind. He decided he had to find her. His journalistic instinct suggested that there was something more to this encounter than mere coincidence—something that could change his life. He began asking acquaintances in the area where he had last seen her, trying to gather even a shred of information about the enigmatic woman, as if collecting scattered pieces of a mosaic.
Everyone who had encountered Kismet saw her in their own way. To some, she was an artist, her movements and words akin to poetry; to others, a philosopher, whose thoughts were deep and layered like mysterious horizons. Some claimed she was just a tourist seeking inspiration in every city, like an artist gathering a palette of vibrant colors. However, none of those questioned knew where she lived or what she truly did, as if she were a spirit gliding through the streets, leaving only a faint trace in memory.
Mark understood that the answer lay not in the responses of others but in his own observations. Perhaps she had left a trace in local newspapers or on social media pages. At times, while flipping through old records to find some clue, he caught himself thinking that searching for information about this woman was not just a job but a genuine obsession that made him forget the failures of his evening pursuits.
March turned out to be surprisingly cold. Unusual shadows of clouds swirled low over the city. Mark walked purposefully through Patriarch's Ponds, scanning for a familiar silhouette. For a week, the image of the mysterious stranger had not left him alone—he had first seen her here, by the old mansion. On the day he got into his taxi, their eyes met for just a moment, but that was enough for her image to be etched in his memory. Walking down the same street, he felt the frosty breath penetrating his thoughts, cutting them off from the city's hustle. Now he returned here again and again, hoping for a new encounter that could dispel the fog of mystery surrounding her image. In his mind, she was like a heroine from a novel, to whom he was ready to dedicate all his time.
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Passing by a bookstore, he noticed her—the same woman was examining a rare edition on history, making notes in her notebook. His heart raced, as if anticipating the meeting he had unconsciously dreamed of. Mark, just finishing an interview for an article about the city's vanishing architecture, decided this was a sign. He entered the store, where the aroma of old books and wood mingled with the sound of softly playing classical music. Kismet noticed him but showed neither surprise nor irritation. On the contrary, her gaze suggested that she had been expecting his arrival, as if everything were part of some grand design of fate.
“Are you a journalist?” she asked, and as she stepped closer, Mark could see her up close: dark hair gathered in an elegant bun and attentive gray eyes.
Mark nodded, taken aback by the directness of her question. After a moment, he replied, “Yes, I write about the architectural heritage of the city.”
“What a funny coincidence. I happen to be researching the same topic,” she said with a slight smile, showcasing the book in her hand as confirmation of her words. “My name is Kismet.”
“Mark,” he introduced himself.
“An unusual name. Turkish, it means ‘fate,’” she said, looking closely at Mark. “You know, I have a proposal. Why don’t we discuss our research over a cup of coffee? Perhaps we could be of help to each other,” she said carefully, without a hint of doubt in his interest.