The house still smelled faintly of rain. It rose from the floorboards, from the wet towel on the hook, from the air itself, like something that had forgotten to leave. Morning light pressed through the curtains in thin, forgiving lines.
Lila stood by the kitchen sink, watching drops slide down the windowpane. Outside, the yard gleamed with shallow puddles; the grass bent under the weight of water. Somewhere beyond the porch, the sound of a wrench turned and stopped. Noah was working on the truck again.
She filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and waited for the hiss. Every sound in the house seemed gentler since the storm, as if the walls had softened.
When she poured the coffee, she caught her reflection in the glass cabinet—paler than yesterday, quieter.
Footsteps crossed the porch. The screen door opened and shut.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
“You were up early.”
“So were you.”
“Truck’s getting there.”
“Still breathing?”
“Barely.”
He smiled at that. The corner of his mouth lifted, not enough to be confident, but enough to remind her of all the times he’d used that smile to hide an apology.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Always.”
She handed him a mug. He took it, his fingers brushing hers just long enough to feel familiar. The warmth of the cup passed between them like a small truce.
They stood for a while without speaking. The clock ticked, the kettle cooled, and outside the world went on shining from the storm.
Finally she said, “You’re leaving today?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“You fixed the truck.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t mean I have to drive it.”
The answer hung there, careful and uncertain.
He set the mug down. “You ever notice how the air smells different after rain?”
She nodded. “Like metal and soil.”
“And forgiveness,” he added.
“Maybe that’s just what you want it to smell like.”
“Maybe.”
He looked toward the window. “You painting again?”
“Not yet.”
“You should.”
“I will.”
He took another sip of coffee. “You know, there’s a postcard on your desk. The one with the bridge.”
“You went upstairs?”
“Door was open.”
She frowned. “You shouldn’t go through my things.”
“I didn’t,” he said. “It was just there. I recognized the bridge.”
Her shoulders eased, but not completely. “You remember it?”
“Every summer evening looked like that.”
“Not every one.”
He smiled softly. “No. Some had rain.”
The sound of his voice, calm and steady, carried a weight she couldn’t name. She turned to the counter, pretending to tidy the cups.
“Do you still write songs?” she asked.
“Sometimes.”
“About what?”
“About things I forget until I start playing.”
She looked over. “And when you remember?”
“I try not to stop.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The kettle gave a last sigh of steam, a long, even sound.
Then he said, “I should check the engine again.”
“Go ahead.”
He nodded, hesitated, then added, “You still write letters you don’t send?”
Her hand froze on the counter. “Sometimes.”
“Still to me?”
She met his eyes. “Sometimes.”
He nodded once more, no surprise there, just a quiet understanding.
When he stepped out again, the air filled with the scent of rain lifting from metal. She stayed where she was, listening until the sound of his footsteps faded into the yard.
Upstairs, her desk waited.
She went back to it slowly, like returning to an unfinished sentence. The postcard lay where she’d left it, face down beside the sketchbook.
She sat, uncapped her pen, and wrote.
*Dear you,* she began.
The ink bled slightly.
*I keep thinking about that bridge. Every time I draw it, the river looks different. I guess that’s how memory works. It changes, even when we swear it won’t.*
She stopped. The words looked too formal, too safe. She crossed them out and began again.
*You asked once what I see when I paint. I didn’t answer. I see time. I see what refuses to leave.*
The pen wavered. A drop of ink fell onto the desk, spreading like rain in miniature. She watched it, then placed the card aside to dry.
Through the open window, the sound of the truck returned—an engine finally turning over. The hum was steady now, certain.
She leaned back, listening. Her breath fell in time with it. For the first time in months, she didn’t reach to close the window.
The light shifted across the paper. The ink darkened as it dried.
And outside, the sound of the engine faded into distance.
Afternoon settled slowly over the house, thick with heat and leftover light. The storm had washed everything too clean; even the air seemed colorless. Lila spent the next hours pretending to paint, the brush dry in her hand, the canvas a quiet witness.
Outside, Noah’s voice came and went with the sound of the truck. Each time she thought he had driven off, the engine stopped again, followed by silence. By four, the house had taken on that long, drowsy hush particular to summer days that don’t know how to end.
She put the brush down and opened the window wider. Warm air poured in, carrying the scent of pine and gasoline. Somewhere far off, a radio played faintly—the local station, a slow song she half remembered.
Noah appeared in the yard, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked up, saw her at the window, and lifted one hand in a small wave.
“Fixed,” he said.
“Congratulations.”
“Not sure it’ll last.”
“Nothing does.”
He smiled, then walked toward the porch. The screen door creaked.
“You’re not painting,” he said.
“I was thinking.”
“Dangerous hobby.”
“Safer than yours.”
He laughed, the sound low and familiar. “Fair.”
He sat on the porch step. She stayed by the window. Between them hung the same distance as always—visible, yet not unkind.
“You ever gonna mail that thing?” he asked.
“Which thing?”
“The postcard.”
“Probably not.”
“Why keep it, then?”
“To remind myself that not everything needs an ending.”
“That sounds like something you’d paint.”
“That’s why I don’t.”
They were both quiet for a while. The air shimmered; cicadas started their long, steady hum.
Noah leaned back on his elbows. “You know, I never asked what you’d write on it.”
“Maybe because you were afraid to read it.”
“Maybe.”
He waited, but she didn’t add more.
The wind shifted, and the smell of rain rose again, faint as memory.
Finally she said, “If I did write something, I’d tell you the bridge hasn’t changed.”
He looked up at her. “And me?”
“You’re harder to draw.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
He laughed softly, then stood. “Truck’s ready. Guess that means I’m supposed to leave.”
“Supposed to,” she said.
“Not sure I will.”
“Not sure I’ll stop you.”
They looked at each other. A cloud passed, cooling the light.
Noah said, “You ever wonder if we’d have found each other anyway? Different place, different time?”
Lila thought about it. “Probably. People who repeat always do.”
He smiled at that, something quiet in his eyes.
He stepped closer to the door but didn’t cross it. “If I stay another day, you’ll hate it.”
“If you leave now, I’ll still paint you.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It’s the same.”
He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll see how long the truck behaves.”
When he walked back across the yard, the light caught on the wet edges of the grass. Lila watched him until he disappeared behind the trees.
She went to the desk. The postcard lay dry. The words she’d written that morning looked too careful now. She turned it over, looked at the bridge, and tore the card in two. The sound was small, final.
Half she kept; half she left on the desk. The window breathed in, breathed out.
She took a clean page from the sketchbook and began to draw—not the bridge, not the truck, not even him. Just the space between.
When she finished, she leaned back, hands stained faintly with graphite.
Outside, the truck started again. Its sound moved away slowly, fading into the trees until it became part of the air.
She watched the curtain lift once in the breeze, then fall.
The house, at last, exhaled.
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