The rain had stopped by morning, leaving behind streets that smelled faintly of wet cement and fading earth. Rowen stepped over a puddle near the gate and unlocked his shop. The shutters groaned as they lifted, the familiar creak returning like a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Inside, everything was where it should be. He started with a cracked screen replacement, fingers moving with practiced silence. But her words from yesterday drifted through the quiet like a soft echo.
Not regret. Not hope. Just a residue that stayed.
By late afternoon, the doorbell chimed again.
Lira stepped in. This time, without anything in her hands.
"Thought I'd check if the phone's still behaving," she said lightly. "No surprises yet."
Rowen set his tools down. "Good."
She leaned slightly against the counter, looking around. "It's quieter here than I expected. Even for a slow town."
"That's why I'm here," Rowen replied.
She tilted her head. "You chose this place?"
He nodded.
Lira smiled faintly. "Most people run from stillness. You walked into it."
He didn't answer.
She watched him a moment longer, then said, "You live close?"
"Walking distance."
"Ah." She tapped her nails once on the counter. "That explains a lot."
She didn't clarify. Rowen didn't ask.
They stood in a gentle silence, the kind that didn't demand filling. Then she looked down at her phone, turned it once in her hand, and said, "Thanks again. Not just for fixing it."
Before he could reply, she turned to leave.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the counter as she passed—lightly. Whether by accident or intent, he couldn't tell.
The bell chimed, and then she was gone.
That evening, Rowen sat by the window. The stillness of the house returned, but it didn't sit the same.
His silence had always been a retreat. A defense. But now it felt like a room with the door left ajar.
Not broken.
Just... vulnerable.