The afternoon settled into the rhythm of the rain.
Every hour felt slower than the one before.
People moved through the city in small bursts—umbrellas opening, footsteps quickening, voices carried and softened by the water.
Everspring, on days like this, looked like it was thinking.
Aria stopped at a laundromat near the river.
She hadn’t planned to, but the rain made her want to wait somewhere with sound.
The machines whirred steadily, their circular motion hypnotic.
The floor smelled faintly of detergent and old fabric softener.
She sat near the window, watching the rain gather in thin streaks down the glass.
Two seats away, an older woman folded towels in silence.
The television in the corner played the weather report, but no one looked at it.
Aria’s hands rested in her lap, palms open, still.
Her reflection moved faintly with the rhythm of the spinning drums.
She took out her phone, scrolled without reading.
The messages from clients, advertisements, small reminders—all the things that filled space when it became too quiet.
Then she saw it: a name she hadn’t touched in weeks.
Elias Hart.
It wasn’t a message, just the contact in her history, the small gray line that marked a conversation paused mid-breath.
She hovered over it, thumb trembling slightly, then locked the screen again.
The impulse was quiet, but it stayed.
The rain softened.
She stood, gathered her coat, and stepped outside.
The air was cool against her face.
Across the street, the river shimmered, a muted silver under the overcast sky.
She crossed slowly, stopping at the railing.
The water moved in restless patterns, not rushing, not still.
The reflections of the lights from nearby shops rippled and broke, coming back together again.
She wondered if he was at the bar now, or if he had also stepped outside, looking at this same water from the other side.
A gust of wind caught her scarf.
She pressed it back down, smiling to herself.
It was such a small, ordinary thing—
but it made her feel briefly, strangely present.
She turned and began walking toward the east district.
The street curved gently, leading her past familiar windows.
Somewhere above, faint music played—a piano this time, notes steady and unadorned.
She couldn’t tell where it came from,
but she followed it anyway.
The closer she walked, the more the melody blurred into the rain.
At one point, she thought she heard a bell—the same soft chime that hung above a certain door.
Her pace slowed,
and though she didn’t look up,
the sound found her.
At the same moment, Elias lifted his head.
Inside the lounge, the song had reached its midpoint,
the kind of melody that didn’t rise or fall but simply held its breath.
He looked toward the window without reason,
only to see movement—a shadow passing by, too brief to be named.
He didn’t move closer.
He just waited,
listening for another sound.
There wasn’t one.
Only rain,
steady,
soft,
patient.
He turned back to the record,
the brass still warm,
the room carrying its own pulse.
Outside,
Aria paused in front of the door.
She didn’t open it.
Not yet.
She stood beneath the awning, letting the rain trace its patterns around her.
Her hand brushed the edge of the glass,
then dropped back to her side.
Through the window,
she could see a figure behind the counter,
half-hidden by the soft amber light.
She smiled—small, private,
the kind of smile made not for someone else but for the act of feeling at all.
She stayed under the awning longer than she realized.
The streetlights had begun to glow, their reflections sliding across the wet pavement like scattered memory.
Cars passed in slow intervals, headlights bending through mist,
and in each window she caught a brief glimpse of her own reflection, multiplied and blurred.
The lounge door opened once, briefly.
A man stepped out, laughing with someone behind him, the sound quick and careless.
He pulled his coat tighter and disappeared into the rain.
The door swung shut,
and the soft chime of the bell lingered in the air.
It sounded exactly the same as before—
the same tone,
the same pause afterward,
as if the silence remembered how to hold it.
Aria lifted her head.
Her reflection flickered across the glass again, mingling with the glow from inside.
The record continued to play; she could hear the faint hum through the door.
She closed her eyes.
One breath,
then another.
Inside, Elias refilled a glass of water he didn’t intend to drink.
The song was nearly over,
the needle tracing the final groove like a whisper.
He didn’t move until it stopped,
and even then,
he didn’t lift the needle.
He let the static fill the space,
a soft pulse beneath the hum of rain.
He turned toward the window.
The world outside looked suspended—
street, light, reflection,
all caught in the thin curtain of water.
He thought he saw a shape there,
but he didn’t trust his eyes.
He rarely did when it came to wanting.
He exhaled.
It fogged the glass for a moment,
then vanished.
He walked to the door and unlocked it halfway,
not to invite,
not to expect,
but to let the air shift.
The rain sounded closer now,
sharp against the metal frame.
From where she stood,
Aria saw the handle turn.
The door opened just slightly,
a sliver of light spilling onto the wet ground.
She could smell the warmth of the place—
coffee, wood, whiskey,
a faint trace of something like memory.
She hesitated.
Her pulse matched the rain,
uneven but steady.
Inside, Elias leaned against the counter,
not looking at the door but feeling its presence in the air.
Sometimes, he thought,
a door half-open says more than words ever could.
Outside,
she took one step closer.
The sound of her shoes on the wet stone was soft but certain.
He heard it.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just waited.
The rain thinned,
its rhythm breaking into fragments.
The record clicked to its center,
the arm lifting itself with a soft mechanical sigh.
For a moment,
the entire city felt paused—
every breath,
every drop,
every sound waiting to see what followed.
She reached for the handle,
then stopped,
her fingertips just above the metal.
Her reflection in the glass met his shadow on the other side.
Neither moved.
It was almost enough—
that stillness,
that knowing,
that shared quiet between motion and meaning.
Then she lowered her hand.
She didn’t walk away,
not yet.
She stayed there,
in the glow spilling from the door,
eyes half-closed,
breathing in the faint scent of rain and music.
Inside,
he turned off the light above the counter.
The amber dimmed,
and the city filled the rest.
The rain stopped completely,
leaving only the echo of its pattern behind.
For a long moment,
nothing happened.
And that nothing,
somehow,
was everything.
Comments (0)
See all