She sits alone, by the fountain, and the sun warms her hair. She watches the leaves skitter by on the ground, and she tucks her hair behind her ear when the wind tousles it. Her legs are crossed, and she’s holding a journal to her chest, clutching it like a vise. There is noise all around her, and many look at her as they pass, she is beautiful, in a way that draws unsuspecting minds in. The chatter of passing strangers is not enough to captivate her attention, nor is the way that the church bells ring in front of her. She listens only to the tinkling fountain, and the fluttering fall leaves. Secretly, she is hoping someone will speak to her. She sits here, lying in wait everyday, but we are all too afraid to approach a soul so calm and uninhibited. Whom else sits and ponders for hours without the hindrance of boredom? She is an unknown mystery, and secretly, we are all scared of her, of who she could become to us. So we all pass by, and we are pulled by her magnetic force, drifting closer, then pulling back, so as to not disrupt her peaceful reverie. One would think she never notices these passerbys drawing near, but she does, and she prays for them to come closer. So, I sit. I come and I sit next to her, by this fountain, with the leaves and the journal. And though she never breaks her stare from the cobbled sidewalk, I see her. I see the smile that she’s trying desperately to hide.