The rain had a way of making the city look softer than it deserved.
It slid down glass windows like tears on faces that refused to admit they were crying. Somewhere inside that storm of noise and neon, Jason Miller sat in his tiny apartment, headphones wrapped around his head, staring at a half-finished song that wouldn't move forward.
It was almost 2 a.m. The screen's glow painted his tired face in pale blue. He had replayed the same four bars at least a hundred times. The melody sounded right — melancholic, tender, a little broken — but the words refused to come.
He pressed a few keys on his MIDI controller.
A soft piano filled the air, and for a moment, the rain outside fell in rhythm with the notes.
Then he stopped.
Music used to save him. Now it only reminded him of what he'd lost.
Jason leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. He was only twenty, but he felt like someone who had lived a few lifetimes too many. His eyes wandered to the old photo taped beside his desk — him and a girl named Mara, smiling by the sea. Her hair was in the wind, her laugh almost audible in memory.
He had promised her forever.
Then forever had died in a car crash on a wet road — three years ago to the day.
The song he was trying to finish tonight was the same one he started the night she died.
"Still stuck?" came a voice from behind him.
Jason turned. Eli, his roommate and best friend, leaned against the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee. "You've been on that track for weeks, bro. You should take a break before you lose your mind."
Jason managed a half-smile. "It's the anniversary. I can't just… stop."
Eli placed a mug beside him. "Then finish it. But remember she wouldn't want you to drown in it."
Jason didn't answer. He looked out the window at the slick, glimmering streets below. Somewhere down there, life was still happening — taxis honking, laughter spilling from bars, music humming in alleys. But up here, time stood still.
Across town, Georgia Lane was running through puddles barefoot.
Her canvas tote, soaked from the rain, bounced against her hip. Inside were brushes, sketchbooks, and a bottle of cheap red wine she'd stolen from her dorm party before it got too loud for her liking.
Nineteen and already tired of pretending, she told herself she liked the rain because it hid her tears.
She ducked under the awning of an old record store, one of those forgotten places that smelled of dust and vinyl. The lights were still on. Through the window, she saw rows of records, posters of bands she'd never heard of, and a flicker of something familiar — peace.
She pushed the door open. The bell chimed softly.
"Sorry, we're closed," came a man's voice from behind the counter.
Georgia froze. The guy looked up — maybe a year or two older than her, dark hair, quiet eyes. He was reorganizing a shelf of records.
"Oh," she said, slightly breathless. "I didn't know. I just needed… somewhere dry for a bit."
He studied her for a second, then shrugged. "You can stay until I finish locking up."
"Thanks."
She wandered through the aisles, running her fingers along the cracked spines of old albums. Something about vinyl always made her feel grounded — maybe because they held memories in grooves, spinning endlessly without ever truly ending.
"What are you looking for?" he asked after a moment.
"Something sad," she said.
He smiled faintly. "You came to the right place."
She stopped in front of a dusty piano in the corner. Its keys were yellowed, but she pressed one anyway. The note rang out, pure and lonely.
"You play?" he asked.
"Sometimes. When I want to remember how it feels to feel."
That made him look up. "That's heavy for a Tuesday night."
She smiled, embarrassed. "Sorry. I'm an art student. We're trained to overshare."
He chuckled. "I make music. So I guess I'm trained to hide everything behind sound."
They shared a glance that felt longer than it should have.
"Jason," he said finally, offering a hand.
"Georgia." She shook it, her fingers cold and trembling.
Maybe it was the rain, or maybe fate had simply grown impatient — but in that small record shop, two broken souls met under the flicker of dying lightbulbs and the hum of old songs.
They talked until the storm outside faded into silence.
Georgia told him about her mother — a painter who'd left when she was thirteen — and her father, who drowned himself in whiskey and silence. Jason didn't say much about himself, but when he spoke, it was always honest.
At some point, she leaned against the piano and whispered, "Why do you make music?"
He hesitated. "Because it's the only way I know how to remember someone."
Georgia's heart tightened. "Who?"
He looked down. "Someone I lost. A long time ago."
She wanted to ask more, but the way his voice cracked stopped her.
Instead, she said softly, "Maybe remembering isn't always about holding on. Sometimes it's about letting go beautifully."
Jason stared at her like she had said something sacred.
For the first time in years, he felt the song in his head move forward — just a little.
When Georgia finally left, the streets glistened like black glass. Jason watched her disappear into the mist, her red umbrella a flicker of color in a grayscale world.
He turned off the shop lights, locked the door, and whispered to the empty night:
"Never."
He didn't know why he said it — maybe because he never wanted to forget her face, or maybe because he never thought he'd feel something again.
The next morning, Jason woke up to sunlight cutting through the blinds. For the first time in three years, he didn't wake up heavy. He sat at his desk, turned on his keyboard, and played.
The melody from last night returned — clearer, brighter, alive.
And without thinking, he began to write the lyrics.
Every word, every note, carried her voice.
Not Mara's.
Georgia's.
Across the city, Georgia sat by her dorm window sketching a boy with tired eyes and headphones around his neck.
She didn't know why she drew him — she just knew his sadness matched hers perfectly.
When her roommate asked who he was, Georgia smiled faintly and said,
"Just someone who reminded me that silence can be music too."
That night, Jason uploaded his unfinished song to an online forum for indie musicians, titling it simply:
"Never."
He didn't expect anyone to listen.
But before dawn, one comment appeared under the track.
> "This sounds like rain forgiving itself." — G.L."
Jason stared at the screen, and a small, real smile curved his lips.
"Georgia Lane," he whispered.
He pressed play again.
And somewhere between the piano and the rain, a story began.