Moscow plunged into the night cover, as if wrapped in soft velvet, which gently hides all the imperfections of the city and reveals only the mysterious outlines of its streets and buildings. A light breeze, like the whisper of ancient legends, rustles in the treetops, and rare passers-by, like shadows, glide through the streets, trying not to linger under the stars longer than necessary. In the midst of these shadows and glints of light, she appears — a woman whose name is known only to a few.
Kismet walked down the street as if she were gliding on the surface of water. Her gait was confident and light, like that of someone who knows where she's going. Skyscrapers, like ancient giants, reflected their flickering lights in her dark hair, creating the illusion that strands of her hair were coming to life, turning into writhing snakes. Every step she took was filled with grace and mystery, as if she was moving to music that only she could hear. She would have escaped from a story steeped in mystery and romance, but …
Mark, a young journalist, was standing on a street corner, waiting for a taxi. His day had been long and tiring, and all he wanted to do was get home as soon as possible. However, when he saw Kismet, his fatigue disappeared, replaced by curiosity and a slight excitement. It was like a mirage, real and ephemeral at the same time, like a shaky daydream. Her presence was so palpable that it seemed as if the air around her was becoming denser, saturated with the fragrance of mystery.
He couldn't take his eyes off her. As if catching on, Kismet slowed her pace and met his eyes for a moment. At that moment, Mark felt as if time had frozen. Her gaze was deep and penetrating, as if she could see right through him, knowing not only his thoughts, but also his innermost dreams, fears, and hopes. That look was like a key to his soul, opening doors that he himself was afraid to touch.
Kismet smiled, and there was more to it than just a greeting. It was a mystery, a challenge, an invitation to a world that Mark didn't know but desperately wanted to know.
"Who is she? Time traveler, loving soul or guardian of the forgotten?" Questions float in the air like a morning mist, and only the bitter truth knows the answer. But perhaps this is the charm of a night in Moscow: it hides, but also reveals, creates a mystery and leaves room for dreams.