I stumble out of the café into the downpour, rain soaking through my coat in seconds. My chest tightens—every drop against my skin a reminder of how exposed I am. Would she think I’m a creep? The barista asked about “the girl from yesterday,” and Rhea practically tackled me for “stealing” her diary. Did Priya see me run? Did she recognize me from university the way Rhea did? My palms clench the empty sleeve where the notebook should have been.

I sprint the few blocks home, head down against the wind, lungs burning with every breath. The streetlights blur into halos; the pavement gleams like oil. My footsteps echo—too loud—on the deserted sidewalks. Every flash of lightning feels like an electric spotlight on my panic. What if I never see her again? What if she decides I’m nothing more than an intruder in her life?

Once inside my apartment, I peel off my drenched layers and drop them by the door. I stand there for a moment, shivering, too wound up to move. The assignment on my desk is still open—my half‑hearted paragraphs on another assignment, postcolonial theory abandoned beneath a sprawl of coffee mugs and crumpled notes. I should be working. I have no excuses.

I boot up my laptop for the fourth time, but the words evaporate the moment they hit the screen. My mind is replaying everything: the umbrella sketch’s jagged ribs, the little “o” lantern sketched below, the poem’s hush:

in the space between drops
you find me waiting
a fracture of shelter
a lantern hangs—unlit, soft—
until your breath ignites its glow

I scribble the lines into my notebook, underlining “fracture” twice and circling “waiting.” Protection and vulnerability. Silence and potential. My pen trembles. I copy the umbrella’s shape in quick strokes, trying to match her raw, unfinished style. But my sketch looks too neat, too deliberate—nothing like hers. Frustrated, I crumple the page.

I glance at the window. The storm outside hasn’t let up. It feels wrong to stay cooped up here, haunted by her riddles. My heart pounds when I remember the lakeside park she underlined in that random passage—where I once wandered as a teen, where I left a broken umbrella rib by the pier after a childhood storm. The memory stings: I retrieved it because it felt like treasure, then stashed it in a box of old curios.

I pull on dry clothes, grab the tiny umbrella I borrowed from Rhea, and duck back into the night. The rain is colder now, lashing at me like cold truth. I make for the park, the path slick and deserted. Memories guide my feet: the cracked wood of the jetty, the distant hum of water against stone.

Under the streetlamp’s halo, I spot it: a fragment of umbrella rib lodged in the mud—waiting. Its curve mirrors the sketch perfectly. My breath catches. The lantern isn’t here, but the broken shelter is. It was real.

I kneel on the soggy wood, fingertips tracing the groove in the old splinter. The park is silent but for the storm’s drums and my own ragged breathing. Here, in the space between rain and refuge, I understand her invocation: this place held my unspoken secrets once. Now it’s her code, her invitation.

Clutching my soaked notebook, I stand, rain mingling with resolve. I’ve found my next step. The storm may rage, but I’ve discovered the pathway through its heart—and I’m not turning back.

I steady myself on the slick planks of the jetty, heart still hammering from finding that fractured rib, when a beam of light cuts through the darkness.

“Is that you?” a voice calls, edged with worry.

I whirl around, nearly slipping in the mud. Under a dripping umbrella stands Rhea, flashlight in hand, her paint‑splattered jacket plastered to her frame.

“What are you doing out here?” I manage, voice rough.

She steps closer, the beam illuminating her face. “Priya told me you had her diary,” she says, voice quiet but urgent. “I needed to make sure you weren’t hurt—and that you didn’t hurt her.”

My chest tightens. So Priya trusted Rhea enough to send her after me if I vanished into the storm. “I—I just remembered this place,” I stammer, pulling the soaked notebook from my coat pocket, only to recall it’s back in the café. Instead, I pat the damp page where I’d copied her sketch.

Rhea’s jaw softens, but her eyes stay sharp. “Priya used to come here as a kid,” she explains, voice low. “She’d watch the lanterns on the water and sketch umbrellas—said they were her only shelter when everything else felt dangerous.”

I swallow, the memory of my own teenage wanderings surfacing. “I found her drawing,” I admit. “The same fracture.”

Rhea holds out a hand. “Show me.” I trace the jagged ribs on my notebook’s page. She nods. “That’s exactly her work—rough edges, careful lines.”

The wind whips around us, carrying distant thunder, but Rhea’s next words cut through it. “I’m sorry I accused you before. I was just…protecting her. She can’t lose this place—or her privacy—again.”

I glance at the turbulent water below. “I understand.”

Rhea folds her umbrella and tucks it under one arm. “Come on,” she says, easing onto the jetty. “Let’s get you dry. Maybe we’ll talk with Priya tomorrow.”

She pauses at the edge of the lamp’s glow and reaches into her pocket. Pulling out a small sketch card, she hands it to me—a tiny lantern, its lines trembling with the same intimate urgency. “She wanted you to have this. Said you might need it.”

My fingers close around the card, its raw pencil strokes alive under my touch. Rhea gives me a sad, encouraging smile. “She trusts you more than you know.”

As we make our way back through the rain, the night feels less oppressive. The lake’s dark pulse still thrums beneath the streetlamp, but in my pocket, that hand‑drawn lantern flickers with possibility—proof that I’m part of something much larger than my own curiosity.