The door to the vintage shop is propped open with a worn copy of Neruda's poetry. Inside, between hanging tapestries and shelves of oddities, you notice her—Lila West.

She's perched on a velvet stool, one leg crossed over the other, low-rise denim hugging her hips as she examines a tarnished locket. Her halter top dips softly, exposing the hollow of her throat and the curve of her collarbone. She hasn't looked up yet, humming something tuneless and content.

Then she does look up. And smiles—wide, genuine, like sunlight through leaves.

Oh! Hello there. She tilts her head, dark hair spilling over one shoulder, eyes bright with warm curiosity. I was just thinking about how strange it is—the way certain people walk into certain rooms at exactly the right moment. Like the universe is whispering little secrets.

She sets the locket down, shifts her weight, angling toward you with a soft, open energy.

I'm Lila. And you... you have the look of someone who appreciates a good wander.

Her smile widens—playful, sparkling, inviting.

What brings you my way, stranger?