The next morning came without rain, but the world still looked rinsed clean.  

Everspring shimmered in that fragile kind of light that never lasted—soft, pale, indecisive.  

The streets were washed in the color of steam and reflection; people walked slower, as though the city itself had pressed a hand to their shoulders.

Elias arrived at the lounge earlier than usual.  

The air outside still smelled faintly of wet pavement and citrus.  

He carried a paper bag in one hand, the kind with coffee stains at the bottom.  

Inside was bread from the bakery two blocks away, still warm enough to fog the bag slightly.

He unlocked the door, the bell chiming once, its echo softer than memory.  

Inside, the space was dim, quiet, waiting.  

He didn’t turn on the lights right away.  

Instead, he set the bag on the counter, leaned against it, and let the air settle around him.

The record player still sat where he’d left it.  

He hadn’t put the vinyl away.  

The sleeve, worn at the edges, lay open on the table like a page he couldn’t close.  

He ran his finger along the crease,  

the familiar image of brass and autumn tones fading with time.

He made coffee slowly, letting the drip mark seconds.  

Outside, the city was still stretching into its day—  

the first buses, the roll of delivery carts,  

a child’s laughter echoing through the thin morning light.  

It felt distant, like a film he was watching without sound.

He poured two cups before realizing what he’d done.

He looked at the second one for a long time.  

The steam rose between them,  

thin, deliberate,  

then vanished.

He left it there anyway.

When he stepped outside to sweep the entrance,  

the air carried the scent of rain evaporating.  

The pavement still glistened in strips of light.  

He swept slowly, rhythmically,  

the soft scrape of the broom keeping time with his breath.

Across the street, a florist arranged flowers in tall glass vases.  

Yellow, white, a touch of blue.  

He thought of nothing in particular,  

and yet everything seemed to remind him of something.

He went back inside, the door closing gently behind him.  

The bell chimed again—  

a quieter sound this time,  

as if the world were trying not to interrupt.

Aria sat in a small café she’d never visited before.  

It was quiet, nearly empty,  

the kind of place that didn’t feel the need to fill silence.  

The walls were painted in a faded shade of green,  

the counter stacked with chipped cups and mismatched saucers.  

A fan hummed overhead, lazy but constant.

She stirred her drink without looking at it.  

The sound of the spoon against ceramic was soft,  

repetitive,  

like thinking out loud.

The waitress passed by, smiling absently,  

placing a folded napkin by her hand.  

Aria nodded in thanks,  

her gaze still on the window.

Outside, the street was a pale gray ribbon,  

the kind that seemed to hold its breath before deciding which way to turn.  

Pedestrians moved in clusters, their umbrellas closed and dripping.  

She followed the reflections of their feet—  

shapes that appeared and disappeared too quickly to belong to anyone.

A bus rolled past,  

its window catching a flash of gold.  

She blinked.

For a second,  

she thought she saw the familiar letters—  

*The Halcyon Lounge*—  

mirrored in the motion of the glass.

But it was gone before she could be sure.

She smiled, barely.  

Not because she was imagining things,  

but because she didn’t mind if she was.

The coffee cooled in her hands.  

She drank it anyway.

By late afternoon, the clouds returned, low and heavy, though the rain never came.  

The air thickened with the smell of dust and electricity, the kind of tension that lingered without breaking.  

Everspring seemed to hold its breath again, caught between wanting to speak and choosing not to.

Elias spent the afternoon rearranging bottles that didn’t need rearranging.  

The lounge was open, but few customers came.  

A man at the bar nursed a whiskey, scrolling through his phone without really seeing.  

A couple sat by the window, laughing softly, their hands occasionally brushing.  

He watched them only for a second, long enough to recognize the ease he no longer remembered how to wear.

The light shifted slowly through the window, changing from white to amber to the kind of gold that only existed between hours.  

He didn’t notice until the glass in his hand caught it,  

and for a moment,  

the reflection of the city shimmered through the liquid.

He turned his gaze toward the door.  

Nothing.  

Just the street, the blurred reflection of traffic passing.  

Still, something in the air felt like anticipation,  

as if the world itself had tilted forward a fraction.

He exhaled and looked down at his watch.  

Still early.  

He thought about closing again—just for an hour, maybe less.  

But his hands didn’t move.

The door opened briefly.  

A delivery man, smiling, raincoat half undone.  

A box of lemons, a polite thank-you, a receipt signed.  

The bell chimed twice,  

too ordinary to mean anything.  

Still, the sound stayed with him after the man left.

He returned to the counter,  

set one of the lemons aside,  

cut into it.  

The scent filled the air instantly—  

sharp, bright, clean.  

It reminded him of the way she smelled the first time she leaned across the counter to speak.  

Citrus and rain.  

It had been raining that night too.

He stopped the thought before it went any further.

The record from the morning still sat nearby.  

He brushed off a bit of dust and placed it on the turntable again.  

The first note bloomed, soft and deliberate,  

filling the corners of the room with a kind of patient sorrow.

He poured himself a drink but didn’t touch it.  

The ice melted slowly,  

the sound small and precise,  

like time dissolving.

Across the street,  

Aria walked with her umbrella half-open.  

The air was still,  

the sky undecided.  

She passed the florist,  

the scent of lilies brushing past her.  

She didn’t know why she’d come this way again—  

maybe she just wanted to see if the lights were still the same.

When she reached the corner,  

she saw the glow of *The Halcyon Lounge* through the haze.  

It looked softer than she remembered,  

the kind of light that didn’t call to anyone,  

just waited to be found.

She stopped across the street,  

not close enough to read the sign clearly,  

but close enough to know she didn’t have to.

She adjusted her umbrella,  

watched the reflection of the doorway ripple in a shallow puddle.  

The rain hadn’t started yet,  

but the air promised it would.

She could almost hear music—  

not clear,  

not loud,  

just a faint thread of melody winding its way across the street.

She closed her eyes and listened.  

It wasn’t memory.  

It was the present,  

quietly repeating itself.

When she opened them again,  

a drop of rain landed on her wrist.  

Then another.  

Then many.

She didn’t move right away.  

The umbrella stayed half-closed in her hand.  

The city began to blur at the edges,  

the distance between lights softening again.

And somewhere across the street,  

behind a pane of glass,  

Elias looked up.