The morning arrived bright but hesitant, like someone testing a door they weren’t sure they could open. Willow Creek shimmered under thin light. Puddles had collapsed into the soil, leaving behind the faint shine of what had been there.

Lila woke to the quiet thrum of the house settling after the storm. The window was still open from the night before. A cool draft slid across the room, touching the edges of the drawings pinned to the wall. Some fluttered; others stayed still.

Downstairs came the distant rattle of plates. The smell of toast drifted up, warm and plain. She sat up slowly, remembering the sound of the truck fading down the road, the way the air had shifted after it.

When she reached the kitchen, Noah was already there. His shirt was wrinkled, hair damp at the ends, as though he’d stepped out for air and decided not to come back just yet.

“Morning,” he said.

“Thought you left.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Road was closed. Flooded near the bend.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Convenient.”

“Coincidence,” he said. “Or bad timing.”

She poured him coffee without asking. He took it, nodding thanks.

“Didn’t expect to still be here,” he said.

“I didn’t expect you to fix the truck either.”

“Maybe I’m getting better at unfinished things.”

He sat at the table. She leaned against the counter, arms folded. Between them, sunlight poured through the window, catching the dust still floating from yesterday’s rain.

“What’s on the agenda?” he asked.

“Laundry. Maybe sketching.”

“You make that sound like penance.”

“Everything feels like penance lately.”

“Even breakfast?”

“Especially breakfast.”

He smiled. “Then I’ll cook tomorrow.”

“You’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Silence lingered. Outside, a bird sang three slow notes, like a phrase that didn’t quite know how to end.

Lila moved to the window, glanced at the yard. The puddles were gone, but the grass was darker where they had been.

She said, “When I was little, Mom told me the rain forgets things. That’s why the air smells new after it stops.”

Noah looked up. “What does it forget?”

“Whatever we ask it to.”

He nodded slowly. “And what did you ask it to forget?”

She turned toward him. “You.”

He didn’t flinch. “Did it work?”

“No.”

He laughed softly, not cruelly, more like someone realizing they’d been expected all along.

“Maybe the rain’s got a terrible memory,” he said.

“Or maybe it remembers everything and just won’t say.”

He studied her, the line between a smile and something else hovering on his face.

“Lila,” he said, “do you ever wish you hadn’t met me?”

She shook her head. “I just wish I hadn’t tried so hard to keep you.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s close enough.”

They fell quiet again. The clock on the wall ticked faintly. She noticed the coffee had gone cold.

Noah stood, rinsed his cup, and set it upside down on the rack. “I’ll check the road again after lunch.”

“Flood might still be there.”

“Maybe.”

He reached for his jacket, paused. “You still have that half postcard?”

She nodded. “It’s in my sketchbook.”

“Can I see it?”

She hesitated, then went to get it.

When she returned, she handed him the half she’d kept. The tear ran through the bridge, splitting the image cleanly in two. He ran a thumb along the edge.

“You kept this side,” he said.

“It had more sky.”

“Figures.”

He studied it a moment longer, then gave it back. “You ever think about sending the other half?”

“To where?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. The other half knows where it belongs.”

She smiled faintly. “You always talk like your songs.”

“Easier than meaning it.”

She slid the card back between the pages. When she looked up, he was watching her the way he used to on stage before starting a verse—quietly, waiting for the rhythm.

The light through the window shifted, turning gold against the counter. The day had that stillness that comes only before a decision.

He said, “I’ll probably be gone by tomorrow morning.”

“Probably.”

“Unless the road’s still flooded.”

“Then you’ll have to stay.”

“Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “Good.”

They both laughed softly, the sound short but real.

After he left, she cleaned the cups, wiped the table, and stood for a long time by the open door. The breeze carried the smell of wet earth, sharp and alive. She thought about what the rain had forgotten, and what it had chosen to leave untouched.

Upstairs, her sketchbook waited on the desk. She opened it to the blank page beside the half postcard and drew the same bridge once more, but this time the horizon ran wider, the water calmer.

When she finished, she sat back, smudged a bit of graphite with her thumb, and wrote under it:

*The rain forgot nothing. It only learned to forgive.*

She left the book open on the desk.

Outside, a single drop fell from the eave and landed on the porch rail, small and certain.

Then the wind moved through the house, carrying everything forward.