The night had stopped raining hours ago,
but the air still carried that quiet aftertaste — like the city itself had cried and didn't want anyone to know.
Sjha closed her journal and let it rest on her lap.
Her window was open again, and the cold breeze slipped in softly, brushing past her hair. The city lights flickered faintly in the glass.
Somewhere below, a stray dog barked once and then fell silent.
She could still hear Arin's voice inside her head.
> "Beginnings don't die — they just change faces."
It kept looping, like a song she didn't want to end.
For the first time in months, her thoughts didn't sound like noise.
They felt like rain — steady, quiet, honest.
She leaned back on her chair and whispered to no one,
"Maybe I am learning to breathe again."
---
The clock read 1:42 AM when her phone buzzed.
She frowned. No one texted her this late.
It was an unknown number.
> Unknown: "You left your notebook on the park bench."
Unknown: "The one with the line — Dream like it's breathing."
Her heart skipped.
Only one person had seen that line.
She typed slowly:
> Sjha: "Arin?"
Unknown: "You guess quick."
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard for a long second.
> Sjha: "You found it?"
Arin: "Yeah. You doodled something inside it — a tree with roots turning into veins. I didn't peek more."
Sjha: "You can keep it… for now."
Arin: "I'll trade it for tea tomorrow?"
She smiled — just a faint pull at the corner of her lips.
> Sjha: "Deal."
She placed her phone on the desk and sat still, realizing her heart was beating faster than usual.
That was new.
---
Morning came slow and golden.
Her mother was already in the kitchen, humming an old Hindi song as steam rose from the kettle.
"Good morning," Sjha said quietly.
Her mother paused, spoon mid-air. "You said good morning?"
"Don't make it sound so dramatic," Sjha smiled.
Her mother laughed softly. "Miracles happen. You'll eat?"
"Yes. Maybe even drink chai."
It felt strange — not happiness exactly, but something gentler.
Something like warmth finding its way back into forgotten corners.
---
By late afternoon, the sky began to gather clouds again.
Sjha walked toward the park, notebook replaced by a small umbrella this time.
The city felt alive — kids chasing pigeons, a vendor calling out for roasted corn, the distant sound of a train.
When she reached the park, Arin was already there — sitting on the same bench, two paper cups beside him.
"You're early," she said.
"I didn't want to risk missing the trade," he smiled.
She sat beside him, their shoulders almost touching.
The air smelled of wet earth and cardamom.
He handed her one of the cups.
"Your notebook's safe. But I read the first line again — Dream like it's breathing. You still believe that?"
She looked at the cup, steam curling upward.
"I used to. Then life happened."
"Life always happens," he said softly. "But maybe dreams don't stop breathing. Sometimes we just stop listening."
She watched him — the way his eyes flickered between calm and something deeper, something that carried its own story.
"You talk like someone who's been through a lot," she said.
"Maybe. But I've learned it's not the story that hurts — it's the silence afterward."
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. Silence can be loud."
For a while, they sat without speaking. A group of school kids ran past, laughing, scattering raindrops from the swings.
"You sketch, right?" he asked suddenly.
"How do you know?"
"You left pencil marks on the last page of your notebook."
She chuckled softly. "You really did peek."
"Occupational hazard," he said, smiling. "I used to draw too. Before… before I stopped."
"Why?"
He looked at the horizon. "Because the person I drew for wasn't around to see it anymore."
The silence after that wasn't heavy. It was gentle — like both knew that certain wounds didn't need words.
"Maybe you should start again," she said quietly.
"Maybe you should too."
Their eyes met. For a second, it felt like the world around them paused — rainclouds, leaves, laughter, all waiting for something unnamed.
---
That evening, Sjha returned home with the faint smell of tea still clinging to her palms.
She placed her notebook back on the desk and traced her fingers over the cover.
When she opened it, she found a folded scrap of paper tucked between pages — Arin must've slipped it in.
It read:
> "Every storm remembers the hand that held the umbrella.
Maybe some people are meant to remind others of warmth."
She didn't know what to do with the feeling that line gave her.
But she knew one thing — she'd see him again tomorrow.
---
Days began to form a rhythm —
Evenings at the park, chai and small talks, sometimes laughter, sometimes silence.
They didn't ask for more. They didn't need to.
But with each day, a piece of her began to return — the girl who used to hum while sketching, who loved the smell of rain, who once believed in beginnings.
---
One afternoon, Arin showed up carrying an old sketchbook.
"You started again?" she asked.
He grinned. "Only because you said maybe."
He flipped through the pages — faces, trees, skies. Each one soft, unfinished.
She stopped at one sketch — a girl sitting under rain, holding her knees, the city lights behind her.
"That's me," she said.
"I know," he said quietly. "That night, you looked like a story that wanted to end but didn't."
Her throat tightened. "You saw that much?"
"I see people when they're quiet," he replied. "Noise hides truth. Silence shows it."
Something in her eyes softened.
For the first time, she didn't hide behind small smiles.
---
The rain began again, thin and silver.
They ran to the park shelter, laughing breathlessly.
"You like rain too much," he teased.
"It feels alive," she said. "It washes things that words can't."
He watched her — face turned upward, hair sticking to her cheek, eyes closed.
"You look like someone remembering how to live," he murmured.
She opened her eyes and met his. "Maybe I am."
And for a moment, there was only the sound of rain, falling like applause for something quietly reborn.
---
Later that night, she opened her journal and wrote:
> I think healing doesn't come like sunlight.
It comes like rain — gentle, persistent, finding cracks to fill.
She paused, then added:
> Arin said storms remember kindness.
Maybe people do too.
She closed the journal and turned off the light.
Outside, the rain whispered against the window — not sad this time, just present, like an old friend returning.
---
In another corner of the city, Arin sat alone in his apartment, staring at a framed photo of a girl smiling beside a lake.
"Hey, Mia," he whispered, voice cracking a little. "I think I met someone who reminded me that I'm still here."
He looked out at the rain and smiled faintly.
---
That night, two souls in different rooms listened to the same rhythm —
the rain that once drowned them now gently teaching them how to begin again.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.
---