[The Rainy Encounter]
The city is drenched in relentless rain, its streets shimmering with reflections of neon signs and blurred headlights. A small, cozy restaurant hums with quiet life, its warm glow a refuge from the storm outside. Ethan sits hunched over in a corner booth; a steaming cup of coffee untouched beside his open notebook. He's absorbed in sketching—a rough, angular face that has emerged from his subconscious.
The door chime jingles softly, and Shamble steps inside. His coat is soaked, and his dark hair clings to his forehead. He takes a moment to shake off the rain, scanning the café for an open seat. There’s only one option: the table next to Ethan’s.
Ethan’s perspective:
Ethan barely glanced up as the man sat down nearby. His focus was on the lines taking shape beneath his pen, though something about the newcomer’s presence tugged at the edge of his awareness. It wasn’t unusual to share the café with strangers—especially in weather like this—but this one had an air about him, a quiet confidence that felt... unusual.
Ethan told himself to ignore it and turned back to his sketch. The face on the page stared back at him, sharp and haunting. Why did it feel so familiar?
Shamble’s perspective:
Shamble settled into his seat, his sharp eyes scanning the room before landing on the man at the next table. Youngish, quiet, and clearly caught up in his own world. Shamble noticed the notebook, the scattered papers, the untouched coffee.
“A writer,” he mused silently. “Or maybe just someone who wants to be one.”
He had no reason to pay the man any more attention than anyone else, but something about him felt... approachable. Harmless. Just an ordinary guy trying to get through his day. Shamble dismissed the faint twinge of recognition as coincidence. He was here for a quiet moment, not for company.
Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the clatter of cups and soft music from the café speakers. Then, almost absentmindedly, Shamble spoke.
“Looks like you’re working hard on something,” he said, nodding toward Ethan’s notebook.
Ethan looked up, startled. “Oh, uh... not really. Just doodling.” He shut the book halfway, as if embarrassed. “It’s nothing serious.”
“Doodling,” Shamble repeated with a faint smile. “That’s what they all say—until it turns into something serious.”
Ethan chuckled nervously. “Well, it’s not serious. Just... passing the time.”
Shamble tilted his head, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Passing the time is how the best ideas are born.”
Shamble leaned back in his chair, his sharp features softening slightly. “What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking? Aside from... not taking doodles seriously.”
Ethan hesitated. He never liked talking about himself with strangers, but there was something oddly disarming about this man. “I’m a writer. Or... trying to be. It’s not exactly going great.”
Shamble’s smile widened, and for a moment, he seemed almost genuine. “A writer, huh? That explains the notebook. What kind of stuff do you write?”
“Mostly fiction,” Ethan replied. “I dabble in a few genres. Lately, it’s been more... psychological thriller.”
“Psychological thriller,” Shamble echoed, his tone thoughtful. “A genre for people who like to explore the darker corners of the mind.”
Ethan nodded, unsure how to respond. There was something about the way this man spoke—measured, precise, as if every word was weighed before being released.
As the rain outside showed no signs of letting up, their conversation continued, meandering through books, writing, and the small absurdities of life. Ethan found himself relaxing, his initial nerves fading. Shamble, for his part, seemed genuinely interested, though he kept the focus on Ethan rather than revealing much about himself.
Eventually, Shamble glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, I should get going,” he said, standing and pulling his coat back on. “It was nice talking to you...?”
“Ethan,” he said, offering a faint smile. “And you?”
“Shamble,” the man replied, nodding slightly. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Ethan.”
With Shamble's departure, Ethan's attention returned to the open notebook, his gaze fixed on the sketch he had been toiling over. The lines seemed to blur before his eyes, pulling him deeper into the mystery. The face now felt less like a random doodle and more like... someone he’d met. He shook off the thought. Coincidence, he told himself. Nothing more. Outside, Shamble walked through the rain, his thoughts drifting to the man he’d just met. Ethan. There was something refreshingly ordinary about him, a stark contrast to the chaos and manipulation that usually surrounded Shamble’s life.
“Just a writer,” Shamble thought. “No harm there.”
For now, Ethan was nothing more than an interesting stranger. Harmless, unimportant. But something deep inside Shamble—a whisper he couldn’t quite hear—told him he’d be seeing Ethan again. And maybe, just maybe, there was more to this writer than met the eye.
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