Chapter 13: Rainlight Reverie
The world awoke slow the next morning, as though still tangled in yesterday's dreams. The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a silvery hush that wrapped itself around buildings and trees like a tender breath.
Kazuki stood on the small balcony, mug in hand, watching the sky bleed softly into hues of pale lavender and muted gold.
Ayaka was still asleep inside, her sketchbook splayed open beside her futon. He hadn't dared to move it. Her drawings had grown more introspective lately—more full of small, unspoken details.
A window cracked open. A pair of shoes abandoned at a doorstep. A figure standing in light that didn't reach the ground.
He thought of what she said yesterday—about creating places where people could breathe.
He sipped his tea and let the morning drift slowly around him.
...
Ayaka woke to the sound of rice cooking and soft music playing from Kazuki's speaker. It was an old playlist they'd built together—a mix of mellow jazz, acoustic guitar, and a few unexpected tracks that somehow worked. She pulled herself up slowly, stretching.
"You're up early," she mumbled as she padded into the kitchen.
Kazuki glanced over his shoulder. "Couldn't sleep."
"Did the rain keep you awake?"
"The lack of it did."
Ayaka leaned against the counter, still wrapped in her blanket. "Weird, isn't it? How silence feels louder after a storm."
He nodded. "I think I got used to the sound of it. Like a lullaby you don't realize you need."
She smiled softly. "I dreamt about my old house last night. The one I grew up in."
He paused, turning the heat down. "Good dream or bad?"
"Neither. Just... detailed. It was the kind of dream where you wake up remembering the way the floor felt beneath your feet. Or the color of the cereal box on the kitchen table."
Kazuki served them both, and they sat together on the floor, breakfast steaming in the quiet.
"Do you ever dream of your parents?" she asked.
He looked down at his bowl. "Not really. It's like my brain avoids the topic on purpose. When I do, it's usually just shadows. Like I'm walking through a house I don't recognize, but I know I'm not supposed to be there."
Ayaka nodded. "I know that kind of dream."
They ate in silence for a while, each lost in memory. The apartment held them gently.
That afternoon, Ayaka pulled out the old journal Kazuki had let her borrow. She curled up on the couch, flipping through pages slowly, thoughtfully. Kazuki sat nearby, pretending to read but watching her out of the corner of his eye.
"You used to write a lot about being invisible," she said finally.
He nodded. "Yeah. It was a constant theme."
"But you were never truly invisible. Just... hidden. Waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For someone to see you and not look away."
Kazuki closed his book. "You say that like you understand."
She looked at him, her expression serious. "Because I do. I know what it feels like to wish someone would see past the walls you've built."
He looked down at his hands. "It's scary. Letting someone in."
"It always is. But it's scarier never letting anyone close enough to prove you wrong."
They sat in the quiet, their breathing nearly in sync.
Ayaka closed the journal gently. "I don't think the boy who wrote this is gone. I think he's just quieter now. Older. Tired, maybe. But still holding on."
Kazuki smiled faintly. "You give him a lot of credit."
"No," she said. "I just give him the benefit of the doubt."
Later, Ayaka suggested a walk. The sky was overcast, but the threat of more rain had passed.
They strolled down familiar streets, past the little bakery that always smelled like vanilla and the closed-down bookstore with ivy crawling across its sign.
They reached the park, where the trees were still dripping, their trunks dark with moisture. Ayaka led him to the old swing set near the back, where children rarely played anymore. The paint was chipped, and one of the chains squeaked when she sat.
"I used to come here alone sometimes," she said. "When the apartment felt too small. Before you."
Kazuki sat on the swing beside hers. "And now?"
"Now I come here with you. Even if only in memory."
The sky brightened a little, clouds thinning like sheer curtains.
"Do you ever think we were supposed to meet?" she asked.
He considered it. "I don't believe in fate. But I believe in choices. And I think every one we made led us here."
"That's almost the same thing."
"Maybe."
She pushed off gently with her feet, rocking back and forth.
"Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I'd been a little more broken when I arrived. Or if you hadn't let me stay."
"Then we wouldn't be here."
"Exactly. Which is why I think even our pain has meaning."
He watched her swing gently, hair catching the light. "You always find beauty in hard things."
"Because I have to. Or else I'll drown in them."
He nodded slowly. "Then I'll be the shore you swim toward."
She looked at him, surprised. Then smiled. "That's poetic."
"Must be the rain."
...
They returned just as evening settled. Ayaka lit a few candles—something she liked to do when the air felt heavy. The room glowed amber and soft, like an old photograph.
Kazuki opened his laptop and showed her something. A short story he'd written over the past few days.
"You wrote again?" she asked.
He nodded. "I thought maybe it was time."
She read in silence, the screen light reflecting in her eyes.
When she finished, she looked at him. "You wrote about us."
"A little. I changed the names. Gave myself better hair."
She laughed softly. "It's beautiful, Kazuki. Honest."
He closed the laptop. "You made me want to write again."
She didn't respond with words. Instead, she leaned forward and rested her forehead against his. They stayed like that, eyes closed, the soft hum of candlelight filling the room.
That night, as they prepared for bed, Ayaka looked around the apartment.
"We should repaint the walls someday. Maybe a light blue. Something that feels like morning."
Kazuki glanced at her. "Are you planning to stay that long?"
She didn't hesitate. "If you'll have me."
He smiled. "Always."
She turned off the light, the room sinking into darkness. But their breathing stayed close, and the quiet between them was no longer silence.
It was presence.
It was safety.
And as the night carried them into sleep, the rain did not return—but its memory lingered, soft and warm, like everything they were still learning to become.