Morning came with the smell of rain that never arrived. The clouds hung low over Lumièra, pressing close to the rooftops like lazy thoughts refusing to leave. From the window of Café Lumièra, Mira watched the faint reflection of her own face layered over the street below—half dream, half habit. The city looked blurred, as if someone had turned down its brightness.

Carlo had left early for the market, so the café breathed in its own quiet rhythm. Mira liked mornings like this: every small sound had meaning. The scrape of a tray, the tick of the wall clock, the soft hiss of milk steaming. She mixed cocoa into the dough, adding orange zest only because the scent filled the silence better than words.

Then she heard it—footsteps above her head. Soft, deliberate, pacing. Not pigeons. Not rain.

Frowning, she wiped her hands on her apron and went to the narrow stairs behind the pantry. The air grew cooler as she climbed, carrying the smell of wet brick and paint. When she pushed open the hatch, light broke through a gap in the clouds and spilled across her shoes.

Aiden was on the roof.

He stood barefoot on a blue tarp, facing a tall canvas propped against the railing. His shirt was streaked with color; his hair looked like it had lost an argument with the wind. For a moment she simply watched, caught between irritation and a quiet awe. He looked like someone trying to bargain with the sky.

“Do you rent this rooftop too?” she asked.

He turned, startled, brush still in hand. “Borrow. Carlo said it leaks anyway.”

“And that makes it public property?”

“Artistic property.”

She folded her arms. “You could’ve warned me before turning the building into a gallery.”

“I was going to invite you up,” he said, smiling. “But you beat me to it.”

She glanced at the painting. It was half finished—streaks of gray-blue cloud dissolving into what looked suspiciously like the café’s façade. “You paint fast.”

“I think slow, paint fast. Otherwise I lose the moment.”

“What’s the moment now?”

“That some mornings don’t need fixing.”

“You talk like mornings are broken things.”

“Aren’t they?”

The wind tugged at her hair. The city sounded distant up here—just trams, a few seagulls, the hum of her own pulse. He returned to the canvas, brush moving in slow rhythm. She stayed, arms crossed, pretending she wasn’t curious.

“You can stay,” he said softly. “As long as you don’t rearrange the clouds.”

“I only rearrange pastries.”

“Same thing. Just sweeter materials.”

She almost smiled. “You really believe that?”

“Everything worth loving takes shape, then melts.”

His tone lingered like a note too honest for conversation. She turned away, looking toward the street. From up here, the world seemed smaller, yet the air felt larger somehow.

After a while, he lowered the brush and said, “Coffee?”

“You’re bribing me?”

“Call it diplomacy between floors.”

She sighed. “Fine. But if you spill paint in my kitchen, I’m charging you.”

“I’ll pay in sketches.”

“That’s not real currency.”

“It is in my economy.”

They went down together. The narrow staircase felt even narrower. His sleeve brushed her shoulder once—an accident, maybe, but it left her pulse unreasonably aware of itself.

In the kitchen, she poured two mugs. He leaned on the counter, watching the steady drip of the espresso machine as if it were art in motion.

“Why coffee?” she asked.

“It slows me down,” he said. “Makes the world fit on a page.”

“And when the cup’s empty?”

“Then I look for another story.”

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“It’s not. But it’s necessary.”

Rain began then—soft, slow, testing the windows. They stood in the quiet, listening. The café smelled of coffee and wet paint and something unspoken.

“You know,” he said, “from up there, the roof looks like a heartbeat.”

“Probably from all the steam.”

“No. From you.”

She didn’t answer. The clock ticked once. He smiled, not expecting a reply, and took another sip.

By afternoon, the rain stopped. The air turned golden, the light gentle enough to soften every surface. Aiden left first, promising to “fix the leak he’d borrowed.” Mira almost laughed. When she climbed the stairs again later, the canvas was still there, drying in the wind.

The painting had changed. The café roof glowed faintly beneath the gray sky, and near the corner, he had painted a small figure sitting by the window, her head tilted toward the light. Mira touched the edge of the canvas; the paint was still damp. On the back, written in pencil, was a line:

*For the woman who rearranges mornings.*

She let her fingers rest on the words, feeling the groove of each letter. The clouds were breaking apart above, letting in streaks of blue. The air smelled like something beginning.

That evening, Carlo returned with two baskets of oranges and an opinion about everything. “You look lighter,” he said.

“Probably the oranges.”

“Or the artist upstairs.”

“He’s not upstairs anymore.”

Carlo laughed. “Ah, denial—my favorite seasoning.”

She threw a towel at him. “Go wash the crates.”

“You’re smiling while threatening me. That’s progress.”

She shook her head and wiped the counter again. Outside, the sky was drying itself on the rooftops, the last drops slipping down the glass.

When the café emptied and the lights dimmed, Mira took out her notebook. The page smelled faintly of citrus from her hands. She wrote slowly, pressing hard enough for the pen to leave an imprint on the next sheet.

> Observation #44 — The sky leaks on purpose when it wants to see its reflection.

She read it once, then smiled, realizing it wasn’t about the sky at all.