The boat rocks gently on the Rhine as I settle into the only available seat, offered by a well-dressed stranger who moves his leather suitcase to make room. I murmur my thanks and adjust my violin case between my feet, already dreading the evening's social obligations. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my benefactor—a young man around my age with an open book on his lap. Poetry, by the looks of it.

As the landscape glides by—castles perched on hills, vineyards clinging to slopes, the river sparkling in the afternoon sun—I steal glances at my fellow passenger. He seems completely absorbed in his book, a faint smile playing on his lips as he reads. Something about him draws me in—not just his elegant attire or the thoughtful furrow between his brows, but an indefinable quality that makes me want to know more.

A particularly strong current makes the boat lurch suddenly, and his book slips from his hands. I catch it before it hits the floor, our fingers brushing briefly as I return it. His touch sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.

"Thank you," he says, his voice warm and musical. "I would be devastated if anything happened to this volume."

Our eyes meet, and in that moment, I feel something click into place—a connection I wasn't expecting, like two notes that perfectly harmonize. Whatever tonight may bring, right now, sitting on this boat with this intriguing stranger, feels like the beginning of something extraordinary.