I moved the way I always did in crowds: sideways, eyes on the ground, apologizing for the space my own shoulders occupied. I felt like a grain of sand being pushed by a tide I couldn't control. Then, near the flower stalls, the crowd seemed to part, not by force, but by a sudden, inexplicable stillness. She was standing there, buying a single bunch of white tuberoses. She didn't have a heavy bag or a worried expression. She was held by a silhouette so sharp and deliberate it looked like it had been drawn with a single, confident stroke of a pen. It was a visual anchor in the chaos, a frame that didn't yield to the press of bodies but seemed to claim the ground beneath her. A vendor shouted. A motorbike revved its engine inches from her. A child ran past, tripping over his own feet. She didn't flinch. She reached out, her hand steady, and took the flowers. The way she moved, with a slow, parabolic grace, made the chaos around her look like a frantic, unrehearsed dance that she wasn't part of. I stood frozen behind a vegetable cart, a bag of onions hitting my shin. Watching. Wondering. Completely still inside all that noise...

Some stories are only finished when worn.