Chapter 2

The next day, the image of Kismet lingered in Mark's mind like a mysterious melody stuck in his head. He decided he had to find her. His journalistic instincts told him that there was more to this meeting than just an accident, something that could change his life. He started asking people he knew in the area where he'd last seen her, trying to gather a little information about the mysterious woman, as if he were piecing together the pieces of a puzzle.

Everyone who met Kismet saw her differently. For some, she was an artist whose movements and words were like poetry, for others, a philosopher whose thoughts were deep and layered, like mysterious horizons. Someone claimed that she was just a tourist looking for inspiration in every city, like an artist who collects a palette of bright colors. However, none of the interviewees knew where she lived or what she really did, as if she were a spirit gliding through the streets, leaving only a slight trace in the memory.

Mark knew that the answer lay not in other people's answers, but in his own observations. Perhaps it left its mark in standard newspapers or on the pages of social networks. Sometimes, as he flipped through his old notes to find some clue, he found himself thinking that searching for information about this woman was not just a job, but a real obsession that made him forget about the failures of the search he was devoting time to in the evenings.

March was surprisingly cold. Unusual cloud shadows swirled low over the city. Mark walked purposefully along the Patriarch's Ponds, looking for a familiar silhouette. For a week now, the image of the mysterious stranger had been haunting him – it was the first time he'd seen her here, outside the old mansion. That day, when he got into his taxi, their eyes met only for a moment, but it was enough for her image to be etched in his memory. As he walked down the same street, he could feel the frosty breath seeping into his thoughts, cutting them off from the hustle and bustle of the city. Now he came back again and again, hoping for a new encounter that might dispel the fog of mystery that shrouded her image. In his mind, she was like a heroine from a novel that he was willing to devote all his time to.

As he passed the bookstore, he noticed her looking at a rare history book, making notes in her notebook. His heart began to beat faster, as if anticipating the meeting he'd been unconsciously dreaming of. Mark, who had just finished an interview for an article about the city's disappearing architecture, thought it was a sign. He entered the shop, which smelled of old books and wood, accompanied by a soft classical music playing. Kismet noticed him, but showed neither surprise nor annoyance. On the contrary, her gaze said that she was waiting for him to appear, as if everything was part of some plan of fate.

- Are you a journalist? "What is it?" she asked, and as he came closer, Mark could see her up close: dark hair pulled back in an elegant bun, and alert gray eyes.

Mark nodded, taken aback by the directness of her question. After a moment, he said, " Yes, I'm writing about the city's architectural heritage."

"Funny coincidence. I'm just doing research on the same topic, " she smiled slightly and shook the book pointedly in her hand, which was a confirmation of her words. "My name is Kismet.

"Mark," he said.

"That's an unusual name. Turkish for" fate, "she said, looking at Mark carefully," You know, I have a suggestion. Why don't we discuss our research over a cup of coffee? Perhaps we could be of use to each other, " she said carefully, without a shadow of doubt about his interest.