Whispers of the autumn

n the air, and the ocean waves crash loudly below them. The air smells like salt and wet earth, and the sky is a mix of violet and gray as the sun sets. As they walk, Isabelle opens

e. Isabelle's eyes flickered up for a moment, catching his gaze. He gave her a small, almost hesitant smile, as if unsure whether to approach her or not. She returned the smile, a soft, inviting gesture. And just like that, the space between them felt a little less awkward, a little warmer. Oliver walked over and stood at her table. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, his voice low but carrying an undercurrent of hope. Isabelle bit her lip, trying to stifle the flutter of excitement in her chest. "Not at all. I'd be happy for the company," she replied, pushing aside her sketchbook to make room. He slid into the chair across from her, settling with a sigh. "I swear, this café is the only place I can get any real writing done," he said, glancing around. "Something about the atmosphere... the way the light comes through the windows in the morning." His eyes lingered on her, soft and observant. Isabelle smiled, adjusting her seat. "It's the same for me, though it's usually more of a struggle to focus." She motioned toward her sketchbook. "I came here to paint, but the words are still missing." "Maybe you just need a little break," Oliver suggested gently. "Sometimes the best ideas come when you stop looking so hard." Isabelle nodded, feeling a warmth spread through her at his understanding. She glanced at him, catching his subtle grin. "And what about you? How's the writing going?" Oliver leaned back slightly in his chair, tapping his