Lira came back just before closing. The sky was already beginning to grey, clouds folding inward like a quiet threat. She stepped into the shop with a nod, not quite a smile, and held out the claim slip for her phone.
Rowen retrieved the device, now fully charged and functional. He handed it over wordlessly. She took it with both hands, weighing it like it was heavier than it was.
"Looks perfect," she said.
He gave a small nod. "Battery should last fine now."
She didn't move toward the door.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. Just full.
Then she asked, almost absentmindedly, "You haven't changed much."
Rowen didn't answer. He didn't even look up.
Lira waited a beat, then offered a faint smile. "Never mind."
She left without waiting for a response, the bell over the door giving its usual chime. The moment lingered after her.
Rain began an hour later. Not a heavy storm—just a steady fall that tapped against the glass like fingers on a desk. Rowen closed early. There were no customers left to come.
He walked home without an umbrella, the rain soaking into his shoulders and collar. A motorbike splashed through a puddle beside him, but he didn't flinch. The city felt softer in the wet.
At home, he changed into dry clothes and sat by the window, watching droplets chase each other down the pane.
He didn't think about Lira—not directly. But her words echoed in his mind, not as a question, but as a presence.
He didn't write that night. Didn't turn on a film. Just let the rain fall, steady and unbroken.
Somewhere in the rhythm of it, something was shifting. Not forward. Not backward.
Just... sideways.