The sky was still bruised with the last shades of night when Devansh woke.

The curtains of his room glowed faintly blue, a promise that dawn was near.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep — not with his pen still in hand and her name half-written across the page.

But the exhaustion of nights filled with whispered stories and restless thoughts had finally caught up to him.

He glanced at the clock: 5:12 AM.

If he hurried, he could reach the café before sunrise.

---

The streets were silent, washed clean by last night’s rain.

He walked fast, the cold biting but pleasant, until he reached that familiar warm glow ahead — the single light that always stayed on inside the café.

Through the window, he saw her — sitting by the counter, her face dimly lit by a flickering lamp.

Liora looked up as the doorbell chimed softly.

“You shouldn’t be here now,” she said.

“I couldn’t wait for night.”

Her eyes softened, though worry crept into them. “The sun is almost up, Devansh.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I came.”

He placed something on the counter — a small, folded note.

She looked at it, then at him.

“What is this?”

“A wish.”

She unfolded it. His handwriting was quick, but clear:

‘I wish I could show you the morning.’

Liora didn’t speak for a while. Her gaze lingered on the paper, trembling slightly as though it carried more weight than it should.

Then she looked up, and smiled faintly. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” he said. “I’ve seen how you look outside the window when the sky starts turning gold. Like you’re remembering something you lost.”

She turned away, the faintest flicker of sadness crossing her face. “I used to love the mornings,” she whispered. “Before…”

Before what? he wanted to ask.

But the words never left his mouth.

Instead, he took a step closer. “Then let me show you once.”

“Devansh—”

“Just once.”

The silence stretched between them. The rain had stopped outside, and a faint warmth crept over the edge of the horizon.

Liora hesitated… then slowly reached out and took his hand.

Her skin was cold.

His, warm.

---

They walked together through the empty streets, the first light of dawn spilling over the rooftops.

She stopped beneath a tree where shadows were still thick enough to hide her.

He turned toward her, sunlight touching his face.

“You see that?” he said quietly, pointing at the horizon. “That’s your color.”

She smiled weakly. “It burns, Devansh.”

“Then we’ll stay in the shade.”

He stood close enough for their shadows to touch. She looked at him like she wanted to remember this moment — to memorize his warmth before it faded.

“Do you ever wish you could be human again?” he asked softly.

She didn’t answer at first. Then, almost in a whisper —

“Only when I’m with you.”

He looked at her then, really looked — the faint glimmer in her eyes, the way she tilted her face just enough to catch the light without letting it hurt her.

And for a fleeting second, she looked almost human again.

---

Later, when he returned home, he opened his journal and wrote one line beneath his earlier wish:

“She didn’t need the sun. She was the warmth I’d been searching for.”