A thin breeze carried the smell of wet stone.  

She started walking with no direction, her pace matching the crowd, her thoughts slightly out of sync.  

The noise didn’t bother her.  

It made her feel hidden.

At a crosswalk, she stopped beside a man playing a saxophone.  

The tune was uneven but tender, something that sounded like an unfinished confession.  

People passed without listening.  

She didn’t move until the light turned green again.

As she crossed, a faint reflection caught her eye—a familiar gold sign two blocks away.  

The Halcyon Lounge.  

Closed until dusk, silent behind glass.  

Even in daylight, it seemed awake.

She slowed down without meaning to, looked at it from across the street, and then kept walking.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.  

She didn’t take it out.  

Some replies could wait.

Elias, at the same time, was standing in the back hallway of the lounge, tightening a loose fixture.  

The day had grown busier outside, though none of it reached him.  

The air was still cool, the faint smell of lemon lingering from the morning cleaning.

He worked quietly, sleeves rolled up, every motion deliberate.  

From the front, faint footsteps passed the door—someone pausing to read the sign, then leaving.  

He didn’t look up.  

He was used to that small interruption, the way curiosity dissolved into distance.

When he finally stepped out, the light had changed.  

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the front windows, falling in long, diagonal streaks across the floor.  

Dust drifted through it like lazy snow.

He stood for a moment, watching the floating particles, not thinking of anything in particular.  

Then he walked behind the bar, checked the machine, replaced the towel, and poured water into a glass.

He didn’t drink it.  

He just let it sit, letting the condensation form a ring that spread slowly outward.  

It reminded him of the mark that had vanished the night before.  

He wondered why he’d noticed that detail at all.

He looked at the empty seat near the window, the one that had learned the shape of her absence.  

He didn’t expect her to appear—not yet.  

Still, his gaze lingered there a little too long.

Outside, a gust of wind pushed against the door, rattling the bell faintly.  

It didn’t open.  

He reached out instinctively to still it, then left his hand resting on the wood for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

The light shifted again.  

He lowered his hand and turned back to his work.

The city outside continued its endless conversation—cars, voices, footsteps.  

Inside, The Halcyon Lounge breathed in silence, waiting for evening to arrive.

Dusk arrived quietly, as if it didn’t want to startle the city.  

The sky above Everspring was the color between silver and smoke, and every building seemed to exhale at once.  

The day’s noise folded into something softer, like paper after it’s been written on too many times.

Aria walked home without realizing she had taken the long way.  

The streets she passed were ones she didn’t usually notice in daylight—narrow, with old signage and cracked tiles that reflected the sky.  

She liked this time of day, when everything pretended to pause.

Her bag felt heavier than it was.  

She shifted it from one shoulder to the other, exhaling as if that would help.  

Somewhere nearby, a bakery was closing; the smell of sugar and warm bread floated out into the street.  

She stopped for a moment, watching a man pull down the metal shutter.  

The sound rang out sharp, then disappeared into the air like the last note of a song.

At the next intersection, she hesitated.  

A familiar sign glowed faintly in the distance—the same muted gold she’d seen earlier.  

It wasn’t far.  

She checked her watch.  

6:42 p.m.  

Too early to go home.  

Too late to pretend she wasn’t thinking about it.

Her feet moved before her mind decided.  

By the time she reached the end of the street, the lounge’s windows were already catching the first reflections of neon.  

The door was closed, but the light inside was on.

She stood across the street, arms crossed, pretending to check her phone.  

Through the glass, she could see him—Elias—arranging bottles on the counter.  

His movements were deliberate, the kind that had rhythm but no music.  

He hadn’t seen her.

She didn’t move closer.  

She only watched.  

There was something about the scene—the quiet preparation, the glow of amber glass—that felt almost sacred, as if intruding would be a kind of betrayal.

Her phone buzzed again.  

A message from a friend she hadn’t replied to in days.  

*Dinner tomorrow?*  

She typed, *Maybe.*  

Then deleted it.  

Then put the phone away.

Inside, Elias turned toward the window.  

He wasn’t looking for her, but his gaze caught the movement of passing headlights—and for a second, it looked like recognition.  

She stepped back instinctively, heart catching on nothing.  

When the car passed, his reflection vanished.  

He went back to his work.

She let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.  

The night air was cooling fast, brushing against her skin like the memory of rain.  

She turned away and started walking, slower this time, her steps syncing with the city’s heartbeat.

Behind her, The Halcyon Lounge came alive.  

The door opened briefly, releasing a warm burst of air that carried with it the first note of a saxophone.  

Someone laughed.  

The sound was small, but it lingered.

Elias stood behind the bar, straightening a stack of napkins.  

He didn’t know why he’d turned toward the window earlier.  

It wasn’t habit.  

It wasn’t hope.  

It was something quieter—awareness, maybe.

He poured the first drink of the night.  

The liquid caught the light, burning gold at the edges.  

He watched it swirl, steady, precise.

“Busy night?” the regular at the end of the bar asked.  

Elias looked up.  

“Not yet.”  

“You like it that way?”  

“It’s the only way it starts.”

He set the glass down, the sound soft against the wood.  

The man nodded, said nothing more.

For a while, there was only music.  

The same slow jazz, the same rhythm that never rushed.  

Outside, the city’s lights reflected off the wet pavement, scattering into a thousand uncertain colors.

Somewhere down the block, Aria stopped at a crosswalk.  

The light changed to red, but she didn’t cross.  

Her reflection in the glass door beside her shimmered under the glow of a passing bus.  

She turned slightly, just enough to see the faint glimmer of gold two streets away.

She smiled, barely.  

Not because of anything that had happened—only because the world, for a moment, felt synchronized.

The signal turned green.  

She walked on.

Inside the bar, Elias set down the towel and reached for another glass.  

The light shifted again, sliding across the counter, refracting into smaller, softer fragments.

He didn’t notice when the music changed.  

He only knew the room had become quieter, and that somewhere, maybe not far, the silence was shared.