Strings of Fate

The first time I saw Bos Masum, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the break room, restringing his lute with fingers that moved like they'd done it a thousand times before. I'd walked in expecting to find the coffee machine, maybe a stale donut. Instead, I found a man who looked like he'd wandered out of a different century entirely.

"You're the new hire," he said without looking up. "Clara, right?"

"Ms. Chen," I corrected, though I didn't know why. Nobody called me that. Not even HR.

He smiled then, a slow thing that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes. "Ms. Chen. I'll remember that."

That was six months ago. Six months of watching him walk through the office like he was listening to music only he could hear. Six months of finding excuses to be near his corner office, to catch the scent of sandalwood and old paper that clung to his clothes. Six months of telling myself I was just ambitious, just eager to impress the boss.

I wasn't fooling anyone. Least of all myself.

The office was a strange place for a man like him. Masum & Associates, a modest consulting firm tucked between a vegan bakery and a vintage record shop in the arts district. Most days, he'd sit in his office with the door open, plucking at his lute between client calls, humming melodies that sounded like they'd been born before electricity. The other employees had gotten used to it. They'd stopped asking why the CEO wore hemp shirts and leather sandals to board meetings. They'd stopped wondering why he sometimes disappeared for weeks at a time, leaving nothing but a note on his desk that said "Gone wandering."

But I hadn't stopped wondering. I couldn't.

"Clara." His voice came from behind me as I was filing quarterly reports, and I felt it in my spine before I heard it. "Walk with me."

I turned, maybe too quickly. He was already moving toward the stairwell, his long dark hair loose today, falling past his shoulders like ink spilled on parchment. The scar on his jaw caught the fluorescent light, a pale line that made me want to ask questions I had no right to ask.

"Where are we going?" I asked, grabbing my bag.

"Does it matter?"

It didn't. I would've followed him anywhere.

We ended up on the roof, which wasn't technically accessible to employees, but he had a key. Of course he did. The city sprawled below us, all glass and steel and exhaust fumes, but up here the air was different. Cleaner. He leaned against the railing and pulled out a flask, offering it to me.

"Whiskey," he said. "The good kind. Not the stuff they keep in the break room."

I took a sip. It burned going down, but in a good way. "Is this what you do? Lure unsuspecting employees to the roof and ply them with alcohol?"

"Only the ones who look like they need it."

I should've been offended. Instead, I felt something loosen in my chest, a knot I hadn't realized I'd been carrying. "Do I look like I need it?"

"You look like you're running from something." He took the flask back, his fingers brushing mine. "And you're tired of running."

The wind picked up, tugging at my hair. I'd worn it down today, the way I always did when I knew I'd be seeing him. Pathetic, really. Twenty-eight years old and still playing dress-up for a man who probably didn't notice.

Except he did notice. He noticed everything.

"I'm not running from anything," I said, which was a lie so obvious it hung between us like smoke.

He didn't call me on it. Just looked at me with those eyes that seemed to hold a thousand stories, and I wondered what it would take to hear even one of them.

"Tell me something true," he said.

"What?"

"Something true. Anything. We're alone up here. No clients, no colleagues, no performance. Just tell me one true thing."

I thought about it. The truth was a dangerous thing. The truth was that I'd taken this job because I'd seen his photo on the company website and thought he was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. The truth was that I'd spent six months learning his schedule, his habits, the way he took his tea (black, no sugar, steeped exactly four minutes). The truth was that I was in way over my head and I knew it.

"I hate my apartment," I said instead. "The walls are too thin. I can hear my neighbor's television through them at night. He watches nature documentaries. All night long. I know more about the mating habits of Arctic foxes than any person should."

Masum laughed, a real laugh that softened the lines around his eyes. "Arctic foxes. That's specific."

"He's got a thing for predators."

"Don't we all."

The way he said it made my stomach flip. I turned away, looking out at the city, trying to steady myself. The sun was starting to set, painting everything gold and amber. Beautiful. Dangerous.

"Why did you bring me up here?" I asked.

"Because you looked like you needed to breathe."

I wanted to tell him that I hadn't breathed properly in six months. Not since the first day, when he'd looked up from his lute and said my name like it was a song he'd been waiting to sing. But that would've been too much. Too honest. Too real.

"I'm fine," I said.

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm a great liar. You just don't know me well enough to tell."

He moved closer, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath, the sandalwood, the faint undertone of something older. "Then let me know you."

The words hung there, heavy with possibility. I could've stepped back. Could've laughed it off, made a joke, retreated to the safety of professional distance. That's what a smart woman would've done. A smart woman would've remembered that he was her boss, that this was a terrible idea, that nothing good ever came from wanting things you couldn't have.

But I'd never been smart when it came to wanting.

"What do you want to know?" I asked.

"Everything."

He reached out, and for a moment I thought he was going to touch my face. Instead, his fingers found a strand of my hair and tucked it behind my ear. The gesture was so gentle, so intimate, that I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Ridiculous. I barely knew this man.

Except I did know him. I knew the way he hummed when he was thinking, the way he tilted his head when he listened, the way his hands moved when he played his lute like they were telling a story all their own. I knew him in the way you know a song you've heard a hundred times, even if you don't know the words.

"Clara," he said, and my name sounded different in his mouth. Softer. Like a secret.

"Don't," I whispered.

"Don't what?"

"Don't say my name like that. Like it means something."

"But it does mean something." His thumb traced the curve of my jaw, feather-light. "Everything means something. That's the problem."

I should've pulled away. I should've made some excuse, gone back downstairs, filed my reports, pretended this never happened. Instead, I leaned into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.

"I don't understand you," I said.

"No one does. Not really."

"Then help me."

He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching my face for something I couldn't name. Then he dropped his hand and stepped back, and the loss of his touch felt like a physical blow.

"Not yet," he said. "You're not ready."

"Ready for what?"

But he was already walking toward the door, his lute case slung over his shoulder, his footsteps echoing on the concrete. At the threshold, he paused.

"Friday," he said. "There's a thing. A gathering. My friend runs a bookstore in the old part of town. Music, poetry, wine. You should come."

"Is that an invitation or an order?"

He smiled, that slow, dangerous smile. "Does it matter?"

And then he was gone, leaving me alone on the roof with the dying sun and the whiskey and the feeling that something had just shifted, some door had opened that I wouldn't be able to close.

I stayed up there until the stars came out. Thinking about Arctic foxes. Thinking about the scar on his jaw. Thinking about the way he'd said my name, like it was a song he'd been waiting to sing.

I didn't know then what I know now. I didn't know about the letters in his desk drawer, the ones he'd never sent. I didn't know about the woman who'd left him, the child he'd lost, the reason he wandered. I didn't know that loving Bos Masum would cost me everything I thought I wanted.

But I went to the bookstore on Friday. Of course I did.

I was already falling.