By the time Aria stepped out of the building, the light had already begun to fade, the sky smudged with rain and streetlight glow. The lobby behind her hummed with after-hours chatter and the soft echo of heels on tile, but she barely registered the noise. The steady rhythm of the rain filled her ears now—twenty minutes, at least, since it had started. Maybe longer.

Her body felt like it was moving on afterthoughts—half-listening, half-waiting—as if she hadn't quite caught up with the day’s end.

Under the wide entrance canopy, a small line of people waited for their rides or opened apps to check tram schedules. Her colleagues passed by with quick goodbyes, umbrellas half-open, bags clutched overhead as they darted toward trams or cabs.

She lingered.

Not because she didn’t have a plan. Her tram would come. She just… wasn’t ready to be part of the rush.

Aria wasn’t cold yet, not really. But she didn’t want to be alone in the hush the rain left behind either.

Across the street, a violinist played beneath a striped café awning, the melody soft and mournful, curling through the rain like smoke. Her eyes followed the shape of the sound—something minor in key, cinematic in how it bent toward longing. She didn’t know the piece, but she wanted to know it.

Then a passerby brushed past her shoulder too close, muttering a quick sorry. She barely registered it—more startled by the contact than hurt.

That’s when she heard it—a voice to her right.

“Doesn’t look like this rain’s in any mood to stop.”

She turned.

Reyhaan stood a few feet away, leaning casually against a pillar, half-shaded by the gray stone. A dark baseball cap covered most of his hair, and a simple black mask softened the angles of his face. But his voice, his eyes were unmistakable—tired, maybe, but kind.

The umbrella in his hand tilted slightly toward her, like an invitation.

“I was in the area,” he said with a shrug that wasn’t convincing in the slightest.

Aria blinked. “That's your official excuse?”

He stepped closer and handed her a small brown paper bag. “Iced coffee. And a grilled paneer sandwich—no mayo. They ran out of your usual bread, so whole wheat.”

“You remembered,” she said quietly.

“Hard to forget things you say in passing like they’re nothing.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she didn’t say anything at all.

“Come on,” he added, lifting the umbrella higher. “I’ll drop you home.”

She hesitated, but only for a second. It wasn’t about needing a ride. It was about how he remembered the smallest things—how she didn’t like soggy bread or strong mustard. How she never asked for help, but he offered anyway.

They fell into step beneath the umbrella, the city muted around them. There wasn’t much space to walk side by side, so they stayed close—her shoulder brushing the inside of his arm, the umbrella angling just enough to shield them both.

The world around them moved fast—cars hissing past in the wet, bikes rattling by—but their pace was unhurried.

The quiet between them wasn’t awkward. It never was.

As they reached a quiet turn, a car rushed past, too close to the curb. Water splashed up from a puddle in a sudden wave, catching on their shoes and the edge of her coat. Aria instinctively jerked back—Reyhaan’s hand came to her spine, firm and steadying.

“Careful,” he murmured.

She looked up at him then—half in surprise, half in something else she didn’t name.

There’d been moments before when she'd caught herself looking too long, but this—this felt different. Closer. Like standing on the edge of a song she knew by heart but never dared to sing.

He didn’t pull right away. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, the sounds of the street seemed to draw back, replaced by something slower—quieter. Like the space between a held breath and what comes after.

Her heart gave a small, betraying stutter. She wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the closeness—or the way he always showed up just a little softer when she didn’t ask him to.

“You okay?” he asked.

Aria blinked once, realizing she was staring at him. Then said with a nod, “Yeah. Just cold.”

“We’re almost there.”

They continued their walk.

The car was parked two blocks down, in a quieter lane where parking was legal, and the rain softened to a mist under the tall streetlights. He opened the passenger side for her, then circled around.

Inside, the space was warm—he’d already turned on the heater. The comforting scent of rain-damp cotton and faint coffee filled the air. He reached into a duffel bag on the backseat and handed her a clean hand towel.

“You’re soaked.”

“Not entirely,” she murmured, toweling her hair with small, embarrassed motions. “Just… enough to look like I lost a fight with the weather.”

He smiled, adjusting the heater. “Tram wouldn’t have been kinder.”

As the car pulled out onto the street, city lights flared in fractured halos on the rain-smeared windows. The faint hum of the heater filled the silence between them, comfortable.

Then, Reyhaan glanced over, his tone more casual than his eyes. “Deadlines still loud lately?”

She smiled faintly at the phrasing. “Yeah. Louder, maybe. I’m still trying to remind myself that work projects aren’t college assignments. That I can’t just obsess over the aesthetics and ignore the rest.”

He nodded, turning the wheel smoothly. “Too many voices trying to cut through the same silence?”

She turned to look at him, surprised. The question wasn’t just about work.

“I guess I’m still learning how to listen to the right ones,” she said softly.

He nodded. “I get that.”

There was a pause.

Then Aria asked, “What about you? How’s the album coming along?”

Reyhaan’s fingers tapped a slow rhythm against the steering wheel. “It’s… evolving. We’re somewhere between chaos and chorus. But it’s coming together.” He exhaled a breath that sounded like a half-laugh. “The anniversary release kind of crept up on us.”

“Is it different from your older work?”

“Yeah. Some of it is rougher. There’s this pull toward honesty—like we’re all tired of the polish. It’s scarier, but maybe better.”

She nodded, listening. “Perhaps that’s what makes it good. The things that don’t try too hard to be heard.”

Like silence shaped into something worth listening to.

He glanced at her then, a quick sideways look that lingered just long enough. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Another quiet stretched easily between them, like the pause between movements in a song. Not empty—just full of unsaid things that didn’t need to prove themselves.

She let the towel fall into her lap, her fingers tracing the hem absently.

When they reached her apartment building, he pulled over smoothly. The rain had softened into a whisper by now, clinging to the windshield like a memory.

She turned to him, holding the coffee and half-warm sandwich gently like they were something delicate.

“Thank you. For this.”

He didn’t say you’re welcome. Just gave her a small nod, eyes soft.

“Text me when you’re in,” he said, “so I know the coffee didn’t knock you out.”

She opened the door, then paused. “Hey, Reyhaan?”

“Hmm?”

She hesitated. “I’m glad you were in the area.”

That earned her the kind of smile that reached his eyes.

“Me too.”

As she stepped out, the rain cooled her skin, but the warmth from the car still lingered—faint, like the echo of a song not ready to fade.

The rain hadn’t stopped all evening.

By the time Aria changed into a soft cotton kurta and set a kettle to boil, the city outside her window had blurred into shadows and shine—buildings breathing under a curtain of grey. Tramlines flickered like half-remembered thoughts beneath the orange wash of streetlamps. Water slid down the glass in slow, meandering trails, like the day hadn’t quite finished speaking.

She placed her phone upright against a stack of books and tapped into the familiar rhythm of home.

Her mother answered with a bright “Aria, finally!” and her father leaned into the frame with his usual calm. Their faces pixelated slightly, but their voices—warm, familiar—carried across the distance with ease.

She smiled, a little tired but genuine. “Hi. I just got in.”

They asked about her day. The office. The team. If she were still the quietest person in the room.

“Not always,” she said. “Sometimes I speak first.”

That earned her a cheer from her mother and a knowing look from her father, despite the pixelated screen.

She told them about the new project—how the brief had changed again, how she was adjusting to the pace and the unfamiliar tools. Her father listened closely, asking questions about the client. Her mother was more interested in human things.

“Are you eating well?”

“I am.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Trying to.”

Her mother’s expression softened. “Does the city feel safe?”

There was a long pause. Then Aria smiled. “I’m figuring it out,” she said, resting her chin lightly on her hand. “I like the work. I think I’m going to be okay.”

Her mother watched her for a moment, then gave a soft nod. “That’s all we want.”

The call ended with promises to check in again on Sunday and a reminder to wear something warmer tomorrow. Aria smiled into the empty room, even after the screen went dark.

She padded into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea—the kind with extra ginger and no sugar, just the way her mother would.

She carried the mug to the window seat, curling one knee up against her chest.

Outside, the world shimmered in wet silence.

A tram bell echoed in the distance. Someone below laughed too loudly before disappearing under an umbrella. Her breath fogged the glass for a second.

Then—her phone buzzed. A voice note. Reyhaan’s name blinking across the screen.

She swiped it open.

“Okay, so I was messing with layers just now… and accidentally made something that sounds almost like ocean but not quite. Like—if the sea remembered a dream but forgot the shore. Anyway. Thought of you. Let me know if you hear it too.”

She pressed play.

A low swell of audio filled the room—soft and strange and full of places unnamed. It wasn’t music, not quite, but it moved like something alive. A hush, like velvet static. The space between thunder and rainfall. Something yearning. Something unnamed.

She didn’t respond immediately.

Just stared at the window, the tea warm in her palms, and let the sound linger.

There was no melody. No beat. But something in it tugged at her—like the quiet memory of a place she hadn’t visited yet.

She tried to pick apart the layers, like he had said—but they blended, just like the rest of this evening. Not separate. Just... something whole.

She watched her reflection shimmer faintly in the glass—half-formed; half lost in the water’s light.

When had he become part of this?

This quiet, late hour. This soft space between the day and everything unspoken.

She hadn’t planned for him.

But here he was—slipping in like a low note she almost missed. Not loud. Just... present.

She didn’t need to speak. Just listen. That was enough.