Rain fell like a curtain over the small coastal town of Elubi, the kind of town where everyone knew each other's names and secrets had short lives. The scent of wet earth clung to the air, and the waves crashed endlessly beyond the shore. Zara stood behind the wooden counter of her late grandmother's flower shop, brushing dust from old flowerpots. The door creaked open every now and then, not with customers, but with the cold wind that swept in like an uninvited guest.
It had been a month since she returned from the city after her graduation. She had wanted to pursue art, maybe teach someday, but after her grandmother's death, the flower shop became her inheritance and her responsibility. The town, once a place of childhood joy, now felt too quiet.
Each evening, Zara sat by the window of a small café near the beach. She drank her lemon tea and filled the pages of her sketchbook with drawings of strangers faces she imagined, faces she observed. It was the only part of her life that still felt like hers.
One rainy Thursday, she left the café in a hurry, startled by the loud crack of thunder. In her rush, she forgot her sketchbook on the table. It sat there, quiet and soaked in a halo of spilled tea.
Across the room, a man with a camera hanging from his neck noticed. He walked over, picked it up, flipped through the pages briefly and smiled.
The next morning, Zara returned to the café, heart sinking as she realized her sketchbook was gone. Panic rose in her chest. It was more than paper and pencil, it was pieces of her.
That same afternoon, the man appeared at the flower shop.
"Looking for this?" he said, holding up the sketchbook, droplets of rain gliding down its cover.
Zara blinked. "You... where did you...?"
"You left it. I thought maybe you'd want it back. Or maybe you'd want to talk about the drawing you made of me."
She froze.