The warmth of Luca's presence faded the moment the door closed behind him.
Maya sat frozen in her seat, the quiet hum of the café suddenly louder than ever. His mug still sat on the table, half full. He had left in such a rush… it didn't feel like a simple emergency. It felt like something bigger. Something hidden.
She glanced down. A small envelope lay tucked beneath his coffee cup—folded neatly, almost intentionally left behind. Her fingers trembled as she reached for it.
No name. Just a sketch of a sunflower drawn on the front in pencil.
Her breath caught. Sunflowers were her favorite… and the one flower she never dared to draw. Too bright. Too full of hope. Until now.
She hesitated before opening it. What if it wasn't meant for her? What if it was something he forgot entirely by accident? But her gut told her otherwise.
Inside was a single sentence, handwritten in careful, steady strokes:
"You reminded me of someone I thought I'd lost forever."
No name. No explanation. Just those words—and the sunflower.
Maya stared at the note until the lines blurred. Who had Luca lost? And why did she remind him of that person?
That night, she couldn't sleep. Her thoughts kept spinning. She opened her sketchbook again and began to draw—not Luca this time, but the sunflower. The one she never had the courage to sketch before.
She added shadows, light, movement. For the first time, her art felt alive.
The next morning, she slipped the drawing into her bag and walked back to the café. He wasn't there.
Not the next day either.
Or the next.
But on the fourth day, as she sat in the same corner quietly sipping her drink, the barista handed her a folded napkin.
"He asked me to give you this if you came back."
Maya's pulse quickened. She unfolded it slowly.
A single sentence again:
"Thursday. 4PM. The garden behind the museum. Please come."
No signature. But she knew it was from him.