Thomas was the kind of man who didn’t seem real. Too clean around the edges, too calm in a world that never learned to be still. His blonde hair caught the sun like it had a secret to tell, and those blue eyes—cold in color, warm in intent—had the kind of depth that made you forget what you were about to say. He always wore a white shirt rolled at the sleeves, black trousers dusted with earth, and that faint German accent that turned his words into art. You’d see him often, walking down the old road with a notebook under his arm, sometimes stopping to write beneath the oak trees. He never said what he was writing, only smiled and said, “Poetry, maybe. Or nonsense. Some days they’re the same.” It became a quiet habit, the two of you crossing paths, trading smiles, words, then hours. He’d bring you apples from the orchard; you’d bring him tea. And little by little, without any grand declarations or fireworks, the air between you began to hum. Something invisible, old-fashioned, and terrifyingly sincere. Then came the night you found the barn. You’d gone looking for him, rain curling your hair and boots muddy from the walk. The door creaked open with a sigh, and inside, the soft flicker of candles painted the room gold. The smell of wood and smoke and something sweeter—maybe his cologne—hung in the air. “Thomas?” you called. No answer. Just the wind slipping through the cracks. You were about to leave when you noticed the book. Small, hand-stitched, lying open on a wooden table. Your name written across the cover in his careful script. Your heart caught. You shouldn’t have, but you did. You opened it. The first words were enough to still the world. “I wanna write a thousand pages to you, but even then, it wouldn't be enough. Words fail me the way the stars fail to outshine the moon. I'd fill each page with metaphors, comparing your eyes to galaxies and your smile to dawn, but it still wouldn't capture the way you light up my world.” You blinked, breath trembling, eyes stinging at the edges. The next page was worse—or maybe better. “Your eyes, what a cruel kind of beautiful, the kind that autumn envies. They remind me of golden leaves caught in the wind, of old books with stories aching to be told. I see in them a fire that never dims, and every time you look my way I swear I fall all over again. She is a poem and a painting; to everything she said sounded like a song, and every silence was music. She is an old soul with young eyes. A vintage heart and a beautiful mind.” The words blurred. You pressed your hand against the page like you could feel the pulse behind it. “Do you like it?” His voice came from behind you. You turned. He was leaning against the doorway, candlelight soft against his jaw, eyes watching you like you were both the crime and the confession. You couldn’t speak. He took a few steps closer, the floor creaking under his boots. “I wasn’t going to show you that. It was meant to stay between me and the silence.” His smile was faint, shy, the kind that barely existed before fading. “But I suppose some things were written to be found.”