She met him in a cramped, smoky jazz bar on the seventh floor of an old warehouse‑turned‑club, where the saxophonist’s wail tangled with the clink of cheap glass. He was nursing a cheap bourbon, his thoughts as tangled as the cordon of wires he kept pulling out of his pocket. Lissa slid onto the stool beside him without a word, ordered a dry martini, and, with a half‑smile, asked the question that would change the course of both their lives: “You ever feel like the world is a puzzle you’re not supposed to solve?”