He was walking down Sunset Boulevard when he saw her for the first time.

At first, his eyes skipped over her, for she was just another stranger walking through the department stores, one that would walk past him again and again until time ran to a stop and the stores would close their windows in fear of the shoppers drifting outside. There was no reason to pay any attention to her tall figure, or even to the tattoos snaking down her sleeves and crawling up her neck.

As he passed her, her jet black hair brushed his shoulder. She twisted around suddenly, an apology growing fast on her tongue, until she froze. Her sleeve had dipped down to reveal surely her most stunning tattoo of all; a golden and blue bird of paradise, colors whorling through the intricate designs, eyes gleaming as it glanced down at the Greek phrase inscribed just beneath the bird. His breath caught in his throat. He recognized that symbol. That bird. It was inscribed on his own wrist, a matching bird of paradise. The tattoo that had been stuck with him the day he was born. The tattoo that had haunted him and changed him, a neverending mystery without a conclusion.

Any words he was about to say dissipated in an instant as she apologized quickly, and eyes flicked just once down to his wrist as she hurried off.

He reached out, and barely managed to grasp her hand. She glanced at him briefly, following his eyes down to her wrist, where the bird’s magnificent crown peeked out from her sleeve. She looked him right in the eyes, and there was something familiar in the golden depths. A light that had once burned for him, a stranger to her now.

“Not in this life, my dear,” her voice was soft but musical, an unrecognizable accent twanging every note. “Perhaps I’ll see you in the next.”

“What?” he breathed, but she was gone, just another feather on the breeze, another stranger on the street, another being in the cycle, unceremoniously tossing him out of his own little harmony.

Something stopped him from going after her. Almost like she didn’t want to be found. Besides, there was no chasing after her now. She was long gone. Another puzzle weaved into his mystery.

He brushed the greek lettering under the bird. It wasn’t just a perhaps. He would make sure it was a promise.

Tha synantiómaste xaná kai xaná méchri o kósmos mas na stamatísei na gyrízei, agápi mou.

“Until the world stops turning,” he murmured, and walked down the rest of the boulevard, just another man in the sea of life.