The rain finally left Lumièra the way guests leave after a long stay—reluctant, apologetic, promising to return. The streets dried unevenly, leaving silver streaks like half-erased thoughts. Mira walked to the café under a sky so clean it almost looked false.  

Inside, the air carried that rare scent of post-storm sunlight: metal, bread, and something hopeful she didn’t trust. The cat yawned on the counter, unimpressed by the weather’s change of mood.  

Carlo was already there, counting coins like they were fortune-telling stones. “Good news,” he said. “The pastry supply’s late, which means I can philosophize.”  

“Dangerous combination,” Mira said, hanging her coat.  

He grinned. “Ever wonder why people love your blog? It’s not the romance. It’s the weather reports of emotion.”  

“I write about coffee.”  

“You write about pauses.”  

She gave him a look. “You should open your own café. Call it *Interruptions.*”  

He laughed. “I’d go bankrupt in a week.”  

Around ten, the doorbell rang—a woman stood in the doorway, holding a suitcase too elegant for this part of town. Her coat was rain-dark, her accent distinctly French. “Bonjour,” she said, smiling like she already belonged.  

“Hello,” Mira replied, switching instinctively to English.  

“I’m looking for an Aiden Laurent.”  

Mira blinked. “He’s upstairs, I think. May I tell him who’s asking?”  

“Tell him Camille stopped running.”  

Before Mira could respond, the woman brushed past gently, leaving the smell of perfume and airports behind.  

Carlo’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds like a plot twist.”  

“Don’t start,” Mira warned.  

“Too late. I’m already invested.”  

Upstairs, Aiden’s footsteps froze when he heard the name. Mira followed with coffee she didn’t remember making.  

He turned as Camille entered. For a moment, they simply looked at each other—no shock, no embrace, just the small stillness of people recognizing unfinished business.  

“You came,” he said.  

“I promised,” she replied.  

The conversation slipped into French too quick for Mira to follow, full of short phrases and long silences. She caught fragments—*exposition,* *studio,* *Paris.* His tone was cautious, hers careful. When they finally switched back to English, Camille smiled politely at Mira.  

“You must be the observer,” she said.  

“Sometimes,” Mira answered.  

“I’ve read your work. It’s quieter than Paris.”  

“Everything is quieter than Paris.”  

Camille laughed softly, then turned to Aiden. “I saw your new sketches online. You’re changing.”  

“Trying.”  

“Don’t. Your restraint was the beauty.”  

He hesitated. “Maybe I ran out of restraint.”  

Mira placed the coffees on the table and escaped downstairs before their nostalgia could fill the room.

For the rest of the morning, the café felt smaller. Every sound pressed closer—the hiss of milk, the clatter of cups, the faint echo of foreign laughter above.  

Carlo leaned over. “She’s beautiful, in that devastatingly complicated way.”  

“I hadn’t noticed,” Mira said, lying professionally.  

“Ah, denial: caffeine for the heart.”  

“Go polish something.”  

By noon, the two of them came down together. Camille carried a small envelope. “Thank you for the coffee,” she said. “And for lending him the mornings.”  

Mira managed a smile. “They’re self-service.”  

Aiden looked between them, uneasy. “Camille’s visiting for a gallery show.”  

“Lumièra has galleries?”  

“Temporarily,” Camille said. “I wanted him to contribute one piece.”  

“The harbor sketch,” Aiden added.  

“The one with the torch?” Mira asked.  

He nodded. “She saw the photo.”  

Camille’s smile was kind but sharp. “It’s luminous. You must come to the opening.”  

“I’m not in the habit of attending my own exposures.”  

“Then start.”  

She left the envelope on the counter and walked out, her perfume lingering longer than her footsteps.  

Aiden exhaled. “That went better than expected.”  

“Define better.”  

“No yelling.”  

“That’s a low bar.”  

He opened the envelope: an invitation printed on heavy paper, gold ink catching the light. *Galerie Montreval — Lumièra Branch Exhibition.* Date: Saturday. Below the list of artists, his name—and hers.  

“She added you,” he said quietly.  

“As what?”  

“Co-observer.”  

“That’s not a job.”  

“It is now.”  

Saturday arrived with the kind of light that made everything forgivable. The gallery was an old warehouse near the docks, its walls white enough to reflect hesitation. Mira stood beside Aiden, both slightly overdressed, equally uncomfortable.  

People moved slowly between canvases. His sketches looked different here—cleaner, more deliberate, like memories framed for inspection. On one wall hung the harbor scene: her behind the counter, flame suspended, expression unreadable.  

A small placard below it read: *Study of Light (for M.)*  

Camille approached, glass of wine in hand. “They love it,” she said.  

“They?” Mira asked.  

“The critics. They think it’s about distance.”  

“Is it?”  

Aiden answered before Camille could. “It’s about patience.”  

Camille studied him for a long moment. “You used to avoid directness.”  

“I still do.”  

“Then who taught you honesty?”  

He hesitated. “Someone who writes before thinking.”  

Mira pretended not to hear, though the words landed precisely where silence had been waiting.  

When the night ended, the harbor air felt warm again. Camille’s taxi arrived first. She hugged Aiden lightly, then turned to Mira.  

“Take care of him,” she said.  

“He seems self-sufficient.”  

“Not with feelings.”  

“Neither am I.”  

“Then you’ll understand each other perfectly.”  

After she left, the street grew quiet except for the tide brushing the pier. Aiden shoved his hands in his pockets. “That was surreal.”  

“Exes usually are.”  

“She’s not an ex.”  

“Of course not.”  

“She isn’t.”  

“I didn’t say anything.”  

“You implied it.”  

“You inferred it.”  

He laughed, defeated. “You’re impossible.”  

“Consistent.”  

They walked back in comfortable silence, shoes echoing on wet pavement.  

At the café door, he paused. “She was right about one thing.”  

“Which?”  

“Patience.”  

“I have plenty.”  

“Not that kind.”  

He handed her a folded paper—the invitation, now with a sketch on the back: two figures under an umbrella, one holding the handle, the other pretending not to notice.  

“Observation or memory?” she asked.  

“Both,” he said. “You can keep it.”  

She took it carefully, fingers brushing his. “Then I’ll return it later. I always do.”  

That night, the café was quiet except for the cat chasing its own reflection in the window. Mira pinned the sketch beside the letter that had once arrived in the rain. The paper edges curled toward each other slightly, as if conspiring.  

She opened her notebook.

> *Observation #57 — Sometimes the past returns wearing perfume and a warning. The trick is knowing which to remember.*

She closed it, smiling faintly at the sound of the city drying itself outside.