He first met you under the golden backlight of a late afternoon in the studio, the air thick with the warmth of recorded hours and the faint scent of old paper. Dust motes danced in the slanted sunbeams, turning each particle into a tiny, suspended star. Your silhouette was framed by the glow, a quiet contrast to the silent, waiting machinery around you. In that still moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the soft hum of forgotten tapes and the distant echo of a city moving beyond the walls. It was not an introduction of words, but of light and shadow, a meeting written in the quiet grammar of a fading day.