Elara

Elara, a cartographer with ink-stained fingers and a hunger for the obscure, carried on with a day to day existence directed by longitude and scope. Her reality was an embroidery of fastidiously drawn maps, each line a demonstration of her unflinching devotion to outlining unfamiliar regions. She found magnificence in the accuracy of an impeccably positioned meridian, the unobtrusive bends of shorelines, the obvious tastefulness of mountain ranges. Sentiment, she accepted, was an interruption, a negligible diversion from her actual north.

Then came Caspian.

He wasn't a mariner, a pilot, or in any capacity whatsoever keen on maps. Caspian was a performer, his life a twirling vortex of tunes and rhythms, an ensemble of turbulent excellence that remained as an unmistakable difference to Elara's arranged presence. He played the oud, its full strings winding around stories of old terrains and energetic hearts, stories that Elara, in her fastidiously organized world, had never permitted herself to accept.

Their most memorable experience was coincidental, a crash of universes at a clamoring commercial center in Istanbul. Elara, engaged in outlining the unpredictable examples of a dealer's slow down, chanced upon Caspian, sending his oud tumbling to the cobblestones. As he accumulated his instrument, their eyes met. His were the shade of a turbulent ocean, mirroring a profundity she'd just at any point seen on the most misleading sea graphs. Hers, typically engaged and sharp, were unexpectedly obfuscated with a confusing warmth.

He was sorry bountifully, his voice a low thunder that reverberated profound inside her. He talked about the music he'd been creating, propelled by the lively disarray of the commercial center, the energy of the city throbbing around them. Elara, at first reluctant, ended up dazzled by his words, his enthusiasm lighting a flash she hadn't realized she had.

Their gatherings turned into a custom, a secret trade between two incomprehensibly various universes. He would find her outlining in calm corners of the city, the fragrance of old paper and ink blending with the smell of Turkish espresso. He would play for her, his music occupying the spaces between her lines, his tunes meshing themselves into the texture of her guides.

He didn't comprehend her fixation on accuracy, her need to evaluate the world, to lessen its limitless intricacy to lines on a page. She, thusly, battled to get a handle on the transient idea of his specialty, its reliance on believing, on instinct, on the unusual rhythmic movement of motivation.

However, in their disparities, they tracked down a significant concordance. His music relaxed the inflexible edges of her reality, adding variety and surface to her carefully created scenes. Her guides, thusly, grounded his trips of extravagant, giving an unmistakable system to his theoretical dreams.

He trained her to pay attention to the musicality of the city, to feel the beat of life beating underneath the outer layer of the arranged roads. She showed him the excellence of construction, the tastefulness of accuracy, the fulfillment of making something super durable, something persevering.

One night, underneath the star-cleaned sky of the Bosphorus, Caspian played another piece. It was a piece not at all like any she had heard, a mix of his standard energetic tunes and an astonishing inclination of calm thought. As the last note blurred, he took a gander at her, his eyes mirroring the shining lights of the city.

He didn't talk about adoration, not in words. In any case, in the common quietness, in the implicit comprehension that passed between them, in the manner in which their hands brushed as he gave her a little, unpredictably cut wooden box containing a solitary, impeccably shaped compass rose, he conveyed a profundity of feeling that rose above language.

Elara, the map maker who had once trusted sentiment to be an interruption, at last comprehended. Her actual north wasn't a point on a guide, however an individual, a spirit that reverberated with hers in an orchestra of surprising congruity. The lines on her guides would constantly be significant, yet presently, they were simply a system for a romantic tale as immense and eccentric as the seas she had outlined, a romantic tale composed not in ink, but rather in the common language of music and guides, of energy and accuracy, of two spirits tracking down their direction to one another, across the tremendous and unknown regions of the human heart.