Morning came gently, without ceremony.
The city stirred beneath a pale sky,
a watercolor wash of gray and silver that refused to choose between day and night.
For once, Everspring wasn’t rushing.
It breathed slow, steady, as though the whole metropolis had finally learned how to rest.
Elias woke later than usual.
The alarm had gone off hours ago,
but he hadn’t heard it.
When he opened his eyes, the light in the room was soft—
not bright, just patient.
He sat up slowly,
hands pressed against his face until the world found its shape again.
The lounge had closed late,
but not because of work.
He had stayed long after the last song had ended,
listening to the quiet hum of the empty space.
There was a kind of honesty in silence,
he thought—
it never lied about what it was holding.
He made coffee without turning on the lights.
The machine clicked,
filled the air with the scent of something familiar.
He leaned against the counter,
watching steam rise,
the patterns it made before vanishing.
His phone sat beside him.
No new messages.
He wasn’t surprised.
He didn’t expect one,
but part of him still noticed the absence.
When he finally left the apartment,
the streets were drying from a night’s light rain.
Puddles clung to the edges of sidewalks,
holding fragments of the sky.
He walked slowly,
hands in his pockets,
letting the rhythm of his steps fill the distance between thoughts.
He didn’t plan to go anywhere in particular.
The body, he’d learned, remembers paths before the mind does.
And so, without deciding,
he found himself walking toward the river again.
The water looked different in daylight—
less like reflection,
more like motion.
It caught the wind and bent it into ripples.
Somewhere upriver,
a barge sounded its horn,
low and steady,
like the city’s own heartbeat.
He stopped halfway across the bridge.
The railing was cold against his palms.
The wind carried faint traces of roasted beans from a café nearby,
a reminder that the world was still turning,
still ordinary.
He liked that.
He watched the opposite bank for a while,
the side where the east district began.
The street that led to her apartment curved just out of view,
but he could imagine it—
the narrow lane,
the uneven pavement,
the small awning outside a bakery that never opened before noon.
He smiled,
barely.
It wasn’t longing exactly.
It was more like recognition—
the kind that comes when two quiets have touched and learned not to disturb each other.
He stayed there until the wind changed,
until the light shifted again,
and then he turned back toward the city.
Aria left her apartment later that morning,
her coat unbuttoned, scarf loose,
the kind of half-preparedness that belonged to days when she didn’t know where she was going.
The air had that thin brightness that follows rain—
everything faintly gleaming,
like someone had wiped the city clean and forgotten to dry it.
She bought a pastry from the corner bakery,
the one with the glass counter that always fogged from the inside.
The clerk smiled and handed her the change.
Aria thanked her softly,
then lingered near the door,
watching the steam curl against the windowpane.
For a moment, she thought of last night’s rain,
how it had sounded against the awning,
how it had seemed to carry its own kind of melody.
The memory wasn’t painful.
Just quiet.
She stepped outside,
the pastry still warm in her hand.
A small pigeon landed nearby,
pecking at a crumb before flying off again.
Aria smiled faintly,
then turned toward the river.
It wasn’t intentional.
Her feet simply knew the way.
The air near the water was cooler.
The bridge came into view slowly,
a thin gray line stretching between buildings.
She could already hear the faint churn of the current,
steady as breathing.
By the time she reached the walkway,
the city behind her had softened.
The sound of engines and chatter turned into a low hum,
a kind of background heartbeat.
She stopped midway across the bridge,
the railing cool beneath her fingertips.
The water shimmered under the pale sun.
Her reflection moved within it—
blurred, breaking,
coming back together again.
She leaned forward slightly,
watching the ripples stretch and collapse.
It was the same bridge.
The same place she’d stood before.
Only the air was different—
lighter,
less expectant.
She didn’t look for him.
That wasn’t why she was here.
She just stood there,
the pastry untouched in her hand,
the world holding its breath in that familiar, forgiving way.
A voice came from behind her.
Soft.
Measured.
“You’re early.”
She turned.
Elias stood a few steps away,
hands in his pockets,
hair tousled slightly by the wind.
He looked like he hadn’t slept much,
but his eyes were clear.
There was no surprise between them,
just the quiet acknowledgment of something inevitable.
“I didn’t know there was a time for being early,” she said.
“There isn’t,” he replied,
and his voice carried that same low steadiness she remembered from the bar—
a tone that didn’t try to fill silence,
just moved within it.
She smiled,
a small curve that didn’t reach her eyes yet.
He came closer,
stopping beside her at the railing.
They stood without speaking for a while,
watching the river twist beneath them.
“It’s different in the morning,” she said.
He nodded.
“Less pretending.”
She looked at him,
the line of his jaw,
the way his breath fogged faintly in the cold air.
There was a kind of peace in his stillness,
one she hadn’t noticed before.
It made her heart ache,
but gently.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
He gave a small, almost embarrassed laugh.
“Not really.”
“Me neither.”
The wind picked up,
carrying the smell of rain and distant smoke.
She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.
He turned slightly,
as if to say something,
then didn’t.
The silence between them filled again,
but this time,
it didn’t feel like a wall.
It felt like a place to rest.
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