Elchin finally found his voice. "It has been wreaking havoc in my head for months."

Elchin was captivated by her spirit. His heart felt like a restless bird every time she passed, but he was a weaver’s son, and she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant. To speak his love aloud felt impossible, so he let it be "decel" on paper instead.

She looked up, her eyes dancing with their usual fire. She didn't look angry; she looked like she’d finally found a partner in her games.

In the narrow, sun-drenched alleys of Old Baku, Elchin was known for two things: his quiet nature and his ever-present sketchbook. While other young men spent their evenings loud and boastful at the tea houses, Elchin sat in the corner, charcoal moving rapidly across paper.

She picked it up. Elchin froze, his heart pounding against his ribs like a drum. He watched her eyes widen as she turned the pages. She saw herself—laughing, mischievous, and loved.