The café smelled different that morning. Less of cinnamon, more of something bitter—like burnt coffee grounds and rain-soaked coats.
Aria pushed the door open, the chime jangling above her head. She wasn't sure why she had come back again. Habit. Desperation. Hope. Maybe all three.
Her eyes flicked instinctively to the piano. Closed. Waiting. Empty.
A sigh slipped from her lips.
She had barely taken two steps inside when she froze.
He was there.
Sitting by the window this time, not at the piano. The early light framed him in pale gold, softening the scar along his jaw. A cup of untouched coffee sat before him, steam rising like a fragile ghost.
Her breath caught in her throat.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't rain or shadow. He was here—real, solid, human.
Her legs moved before her mind could catch up. She crossed the room, pulse racing, until she stood at his table.
"You," she whispered.
His gaze lifted slowly. Dark eyes, unreadable, locking onto hers. No smile. No greeting. Just silence, heavy and sharp, like a blade hanging between them.
Aria gripped the back of the chair across from him. Her knuckles whitened. "You can't keep—" her voice broke, frustration rising, "you can't keep appearing and disappearing like some ghost."
Nothing.
The rain outside tapped against the glass.
She lowered herself into the chair anyway, heart hammering. "I found this." She pulled the crumpled sheet music from her bag and slid it across the table. "You dropped it."
His eyes flicked down. For the first time, something shifted in his expression. Not surprise—recognition. A shadow of grief flickered across his face, gone in an instant.
Aria leaned forward, desperate. "What is this? Why me? Why that night?"
His hand hovered over the paper. Fingers long, calloused. He touched it gently, like it might burn him.
Still, he said nothing.
Aria's frustration spiked. "Say something." Her voice cracked in the quiet café, drawing a glance from the waitress. She lowered her tone, trembling. "Please."
He looked at her then. Really looked. And for one heartbeat, silence wasn't emptiness—it was weight. Meaning. His eyes told her what his lips refused: pain too heavy to voice, truths that could shatter.
Aria's throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to shake him, to break whatever wall he had built. Instead, tears pricked her eyes.
The waitress arrived with a tray. "Coffee?" she asked.
Aria nodded without thinking. Her hands shook as she wrapped them around the cup. Heat seeped into her skin, grounding her.
When she glanced up again, Elias—she didn't know the name yet, but it rang in her bones—was already standing.
"No," she whispered. She shot up from her chair, nearly spilling the coffee. "Don't leave again."
For the first time, his lips parted.
Not for words—only a sound.
A low hum. Fragile. A melody stripped to its bones.
Her heart stilled.
It was the song. The broken lullaby from that night.
Her knees almost gave out.
He stopped as quickly as he had begun. His gaze lingered on her—soft, almost apologetic—before he turned and walked toward the door.
The bell chimed.
And he was gone.
Aria collapsed back into the chair, shaking, coffee untouched.
But something had shifted.
Silence wasn't just silence anymore. It was a voice. His voice.
And she would follow it until she understood.
The coffee in front of her had gone cold, untouched, its bitter scent crawling up her throat. Aria stared at the door long after it had closed behind him, her pulse still unsteady, her breath refusing to settle. The silence he left behind was louder than any noise, pressing against her ribs, filling every space he had just vacated.
She clenched her fists on the table. Why won't he speak? Why does he keep running?
The crumpled sheet music still lay where he'd touched it, smudged now by her own fingerprints. She snatched it back, pressing it flat against the table as though it might give her answers.
Notes. Lines. A melody that clawed at her memory. The same one he had hummed—so faint, yet enough to unravel her.
"Aria?" The waitress's voice startled her. "Do you… know him?"
She looked up, eyes wide. "You saw him?"
The waitress blinked. "Well… of course. He comes here sometimes."
Her heart thudded. So he's real. Not a ghost. Not a hallucination.
Aria swallowed. "What do you know about him?"
The waitress hesitated, biting her lip. "Not much. He doesn't talk. At least not to anyone I've seen. Orders by pointing at the menu. Pays in cash. Never stays long." She lowered her voice, leaning in. "He's… different. Some people say he used to be a musician, but…" She shrugged. "That's just rumor."
A musician. The word punched the air from Aria's lungs. She looked back at the sheet music, the broken lullaby scrawled in uneven ink.
Her hands trembled as she slid it into her bag. She felt raw, exposed, like she'd just been dragged into a storm she wasn't prepared for.
She left the café minutes later, the bell's chime echoing like a taunt. Outside, the city was a blur of rain-washed streets and hurried footsteps. But Aria didn't notice the cold drops that clung to her hair or the traffic's restless horns. All she could hear was the fragment of melody he had hummed—the only sound he'd given her.
It clung to her like a haunting.
By the time she reached her apartment, the rain had seeped through her coat, chilling her bones. She pushed the door shut behind her, dropped her bag, and sank onto the couch.
Her fingers itched. She pulled out the sheet music again, spreading it across the coffee table. She traced the notes, whispering them aloud, almost praying. "Who are you? And why me?"
Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. She hated the way he made her feel—both seen and abandoned, wanted and discarded. His silence wasn't neutral. It was deliberate. A wall.
But why build it, only to let her glimpse through the cracks?
Her phone buzzed beside her, jolting her from the spiral. A message from Mia lit up the screen.
Mia: You okay? You disappeared after the storm last night. Tell me you didn't do something reckless.
Aria typed back with stiff fingers: I saw him again.
The reply was instant.
Mia: Him? The guy at the piano? Aria… are you sure you're not imagining this?
Her chest tightened. Even Mia doubts me.
But the waitress had seen him too. He was real. He had to be.
Aria shoved the phone aside, pressing her palms against her eyes. His face burned in her memory—the scar, the hollow ache in his eyes, the way his lips had parted just enough to hum a ghost of a melody.
She couldn't shake the feeling that he wanted to say something. That silence wasn't his choice, but his prison.
And she couldn't walk away. Not now.
When she finally lay down in bed hours later, rain still tapping against the window, the question chased her into restless sleep:
What broke him so badly that silence became his only language?