The café was emptier than usual that night.

Only one other table was occupied, and even that fell silent before the clock reached 3 a.m.

The rain outside had turned into mist, drifting like breath against the windows.

Devansh sat at his usual corner, a half-finished page before him. His handwriting had grown slower, softer — as if the story itself was taking its time to bloom.

He didn’t hear her approach until a cup landed gently beside his notebook.

“No order tonight?” she asked, wiping her hands on a cloth.

He looked up, smiling faintly. “Didn’t feel like coffee.”

She tilted her head. “You’re writing again.”

“Trying to,” he said. “But the words are… shy tonight.”

She laughed quietly. “Maybe they’re waiting for permission.”

He looked at her then — the calmness in her eyes, the way the dim light caught a strange silver hue in them.

“Permission?” he asked.

“To be honest,” she said. “Words only come when they stop pretending.”

He leaned back, considering that. “You sound like someone who’s lived long enough to figure people out.”

“I’ve met a few,” she replied simply, eyes distant.

He smiled. “And what about you? What’s your story?”

She hesitated — just a breath — then sat across from him. It was the first time she’d done that.

“My story…” she began softly. “It’s hard to tell when you don’t remember where it started.”

He frowned slightly. “You forgot?”

“Didn't forgot,” she said. “More like… it faded. Time does that when it stretches too long.”

Her gaze drifted to the window, where the fog pressed against the glass.

“I used to count years,” she said quietly. “Then decades. Then I stopped. At some point, memories stop feeling like yours. They just become... stories you’ve heard too often.”

Devansh didn’t know why his chest tightened. “That sounds… lonely.”

She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You get used to it. Nights are good companions. They listen, even when people stop doing that.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the clock chimed softly — 3:11.

She stood up, smoothing her apron. “You should write that down,” she said. “Before the night forgets it.”

He nodded, pen already in hand. “What about your name?” he asked, almost an afterthought.

She paused mid-step. “It’s been a while since someone asked.”

Then, turning with a small, knowing smile, she said —

“Liora.”

And with that, she disappeared into the back room — leaving him staring at the name that now glowed on his paper like a secret only the night could’ve whispered.