The next few nights followed a rhythm Devansh didn’t want to break.

Write a little. Talk a little. Watch her move between tables like someone who’d been doing it for centuries.

And sometimes, when the café grew still, she’d lean on the counter and listen to him read what he’d written — as if his words helped her remember something she’d lost.

But tonight felt different.

The clock ticked past 2 a.m., and thunder rolled faintly in the distance. The café lights flickered once before steadying.

Devansh sat near the window, sketching ideas between coffee sips.

Liora stood behind the counter, humming softly — an old tune that sounded both haunting and familiar.

“Hey,” he called, “I think I’ve written something you’ll like.”

She looked up, intrigued. “Oh? Read it to me.”

He cleared his throat.

“It’s about a boy who keeps returning to the same place every night,” he began. “Not because he needs coffee — but because something there makes the world feel real again.”

Her eyes softened. “That’s beautiful.”

He smiled shyly. “It’s still missing something, though. An ending.”

“Maybe it’s not supposed to end yet,” she said, walking closer.

He laughed. “You always sound like a poet.”

“Maybe I just understand silence,” she replied.

As she reached across the table to hand him another napkin — their fingers brushed.

Devansh froze.

It wasn’t just cold. It was unnatural.

Like touching snow that never melted, or marble that pulsed faintly under skin.

The chill went straight to his heartbeat, but not in fear — it was fascination.

He looked up at her. She’d already stepped back, eyes wide.

“I—sorry,” she murmured quickly, pulling her sleeves down. “It’s always cold here. You get used to it.”

But her voice trembled slightly — the first crack he’d ever heard in her calm.

He could’ve let it go. Pretended nothing happened. But something about the way she avoided his gaze made him speak.

“You don’t have to hide it,” he said softly.

Her eyes darted to his, uncertain. “Hide what?”

“That you’re colder than the night itself,” he said, half-smiling.

She didn’t answer. Just stared for a long moment, then whispered,

“Some things are easier to believe when you don’t ask.”

Then she walked away — the faint scent of vanilla and rain trailing behind her.

Devansh exhaled, looking at his notebook. His hand still tingled where she’d touched him.

He picked up the pen and wrote a single line under his story:

“Her hand was colder than truth — and yet, it felt like home.”

Outside, thunder cracked again.

Inside, he finally realized — he wasn’t just writing a story anymore.

He was living one.