The bell above the café door rang once when Emily pushed it open. Afternoon rain blurred the street into gray ribbons, and the air smelled of cinnamon and roasted beans. The sound of chairs, cups, and murmurs folded into something almost like calm.

She stood for a second, letting her eyes adjust. The café was smaller than she remembered. The brick wall still breathed warmth. The same piano waited in the corner, half covered by a woven blanket. Only the photos had changed—faces she didn’t know smiling from frames she used to dust with her sleeve.

Liam sat by the window, shoulders drawn in, hands around a cup that had gone cold. He looked up, surprise and something heavier flashing in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she answered.

They both hesitated. She gestured to the empty chair. He nodded. She took off her coat and sat, her bag resting at her feet.

The waiter appeared with a tired smile. Emily didn’t need to order. Tea with lemon arrived a moment later, the same way she used to drink it.

Outside, the rain grew steady. Inside, words felt heavier than steam.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.

“I wasn’t sure either.”

“Because of yesterday?”

“Because of yesterday, and everything before it.”

“That’s fair.”

He tried to smile but it broke halfway.

“I saw the video,” he said.

“Grace sent it to you?”

“The whole town’s seen it.”

“Then the whole town knows I’m terrible at politics.”

“They know you care.”

She looked at him. “Do you?”

He didn’t answer right away. The piano gave a small hum as wind slipped through the doorframe.

“I do,” he said finally.

The words hung there, unadorned.

Steam rose between them and vanished.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.

“Go on.”

“I found a file. In the archive. My father’s name is on it—next to Collins’s.”

Liam’s brows pulled tight. “He signed the redevelopment contract?”

“The date’s wrong. It’s from ten years before the project started. Either it’s forged, or it’s older than anyone admits.”

“And Collins?”

“He knows. He’s using it.”

“To what end?”

“To make me the distraction.”

Liam’s jaw clenched. “That’s cruel, even for him.”

“He’s not doing it alone.”

He sat back, exhaling slow. “Grace mentioned the mayor’s press conference tomorrow. You’re going?”

“I have to.”

“They’ll come after you.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t face them alone.”

“I won’t.”

Her tone left no room for argument.

He looked at her a long moment, rain streaking the glass behind her like lines on a map.

“My mother used to say your father believed in saving things,” he said.

“She wrote him a letter,” Emily said quietly.

“I found it,” he said.

“You did?”

“In storage. It was addressed to him but never sent.”

She blinked. “What did it say?”

“That she didn’t trust the mayor. That something in the proposal felt wrong.”

“She was right.”

The waiter refilled their cups. Neither touched them.

“When I left,” she said, “I thought distance would fix it.”

“Did it?”

“No. It just changed the view.”

He smiled a little. “And now?”

“Now I see everything I ran from.”

They watched the window. Rain traced long lines across their reflections, crossing and rejoining.

“Do you remember that night?” she asked.

“The one with the storm?”

“The night we stopped talking.”

“Every time it rains.”

“It was colder than this.”

“You wore my jacket.”

“I gave it back.”

“I never took it.”

That made her laugh. The sound surprised both of them.

“I thought leaving would hurt less,” she said.

“It didn’t.”

“No.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was full of what they hadn’t said.

“You’re going back to the mill, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Grace will go?”

“She’ll film. You’ll guard?”

“I’ll drive.”

Her mouth curved. “You just volunteered.”

“I always do.”

Grace walked in then, camera bag on her shoulder, hair damp. She spotted them and raised a hand. Emily waved back.

“I told her we’d meet here,” Emily said.

“She worries.”

“She’s right to.”

Grace joined them, sliding into the booth with a grin. “You two look like a closing scene—coffee, regret, poetic lighting.”

“Pick one,” Emily said.

“Regret suits you.”

“Thanks.”

Grace set her camera on the table. “Collins is holding a press release tomorrow. Calls it ‘community realignment.’ Sounds surgical, doesn’t it?”

“It sounds like spin,” Liam said.

“Same thing.”

Emily stirred her tea. “Let him talk. I’ll answer.”

Grace leaned closer. “Careful, Em. He’ll twist it till you sound like the villain.”

“Then I’ll be the villain who tells the truth.”

“You always were,” Grace said.

The three of them fell quiet. Rain softened to a whisper. Outside, headlights floated past like lanterns on a river.

Liam checked his watch. “I should go.”

Emily looked up. “You don’t have to.”

“I do. Early deliveries.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

He stood, hesitated, then touched her shoulder. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

The bell rang as he left. Rain swallowed the sound.

Grace watched him disappear through the window. “You think he’ll really show?”

“He will.”

“You sound sure.”

“I am.”

Grace smiled. “Then I’ll bring extra batteries.”

Emily laughed once, then stopped. “You ever wish we could undo things?”

“All the time,” Grace said. “Then I remember most of them made us interesting.”

Emily looked down at the tea gone cold. “I miss simple.”

“Simple’s overrated.”

They sat there, the café shrinking around them as the evening deepened. Outside, Hollow Creek shimmered under the weight of rain. Inside, the clock ticked toward something they couldn’t name.

Emily reached for her coat. “Tomorrow’s going to be loud.”

“Then get some sleep,” Grace said.

“I will.”

“Liar.”

“Always.”

Grace chuckled. “You’re getting predictable.”

“I’ll see you at sunrise.”

“You better.”

Emily stood. The piano string hummed once more, a faint echo of ten years ago. She turned toward the door. The smell of coffee followed her out.

The rain waited, patient and endless.