It started raining before sunrise, the kind of rain that came without warning or thunder, just a steady silence that softened the world.
By the time Elena woke, the sky outside her window was a light grey fabric. She listened to the rhythm of the drops against the glass, still curled beneath the Loaned blanket
The guest house smelled faintly of warm wood and colourful herbs, and somewhere in the distance, a soft whistle curled through the air, like a morning melody.
There were no plans for the day. No deadlines. No flights. No reason to rush. And yet, her heart felt like it was standing at the edge of something.
Rainy days used to feel lonely.
Now, they felt like possibilities.
Noah opened the bookstore late that morning. He'd let himself sleep in something he rarely allowed. But the weather gave him permission, and permission was a gift he'd only recently learned to accept.
By ten o'clock, the store had settled into its familiar quiet hum. Soft jazz drifted through the speakers. The lights were warm. The scent of cinnamon bread, baked fresh by Mrs. Alder from the cafe next door, filled the space. She always dropped a loaf on rainy days, like a loaf could keep the sadness away.
She wasn't wrong.
Noah sliced the loaf carefully and set it out beside the till. He made a second pot of coffee and stared out the window for a long minute, watching the drops trail down the glass like thoughts trying to find form.
Then the door opened.
And there she was.
Elena wore a black raincoat and untied hair, camera slung over one shoulder. Her cheeks were pink from the walk, and her boots left little wet prints on the floor.
"You're open," she said, like it was a surprise.
"I'm always open when it rains," he replied.
"Why?"
He smiled. "Because rainy days are when the loneliest people come looking for stories."
She paused. "Am I one of them?"
"I think," he said, "you're one of the brave ones who came before it turned into loneliness."
She didn't answer right away. But her eyes held his for longer than usual.
Then she said, "I brought you something."
It wasn't much, a photograph, printed on dull paper. She handed it to him carefully, like it might still be drying.
It was on the lake. But not just the lake.
It was a moment.
Two kids skipping stones. A dog with its ears flapping mid-run. The horizon split in golden haze. And in the foreground, a single bench, empty, waiting, beautiful in its stillness.
"You took this?" he asked softly.
She nodded. "Yesterday. I wasn't going to print it. But something about it… felt like you."
He looked at it for a long time. The photo wasn't polished. It had no filters, no clever edits. But it was full. Honest. Alive.
"I love it," he said, and meant it.
"Good," she murmured. "Because I have no idea what I'm doing anymore."
They sat together at the little round table by the poetry shelf. Two mugs of black coffee. Three uneven slices of cinnamon bread. Outside, the rain whispered secrets to the pavement.
"You really baked this?" she asked, biting into the warm slice.
"No," he said, smiling. "I have no baking skills whatsoever. That's Mrs. Alder's magic."
"She deserves a statue."
"She'd settle for someone remembering her birthday."
They both laughed, the kind of laugh that softened bones.
Then silence fell, but it wasn't awkward. It was companionable. Safe.
"I used to hate the rain," Elena said, tracing a finger around the rim of her mug. "In the city, it just meant wet jeans and traffic."
"And here?"
"Here, it feels like permission to breathe."
Noah didn't say anything for a while.
Then: "Do you think you'll leave soon?"
The question landed between them like a bird unsure of where to perch.
She looked down. "I don't know."
"I'm not trying to pressure you. I just said, " He stopped. "I'm learning to ask instead of assume."
She nodded slowly. "That's fair."
Another pause. Then she whispered, "I'm afraid of what it means to stay."
"Because it makes things real?"
She looked up. "Because it means I'd have to want something. And wanting always hurts."
Noah leaned back, his hand holding the mug. "Maybe. But sometimes, it also heals."
She didn't respond. But she didn't leave either.
And maybe that was its own kind of answer.
That afternoon, the rain let up just long enough for the clouds to exhale. The world looked cleaner somehow. Softer.
Noah closed the store early.
He left a note on the door: "Closed for rain. Open for warmth."
They walked together to the cafe where Mrs. Alder was sweeping the doorstep and humming an old soul tune.
"Ah," she said, beaming at them. "The cinnamon bread crew."
"You spoil us," Elena said.
"Someone has to," she replied. "The world doesn't hand out soft places. You've got to build them."
She blinked and went back inside.
They sat under the covered patio, still warm from the oven heat inside. Noah brought out a small notebook from his coat pocket and flipped through a few pages.
"What's that?" Elena asked.
"My journal," he replied. "Sort of."
"Can I see?"
He hesitated. "Some of it."
She waited while he carefully tore out a single page and handed it to her.
It read:
"There are people who feel like Sunday mornings.
Not because they're quiet, but because they teach you how to rest.
And I think she might be one of them."
Elena read it slowly. Then again.
She folded the paper and held it between her palms like something sacred.
"Was this about me?" she asked.
He didn't answer directly.
But his silence said everything.
Later that night, back in her room, Elena wrote for the first time in months.
Not for work. Not for a client. Not for her portfolio. Just for herself.
She wrote about cinnamon bread and rainy windows. About the safety of a stranger's steady gaze. About how it terrified her to be seen and comforted her all at once.
She wrote about Noah.
And for the first time in a long while, she didn't edit a word.
The next morning, the sun broke through.
It touched the rooftops gently, like an apology for its absence. Birds chirped. A cat wandered lazily across the veranda. And inside the little bookstore, a new note had appeared. Placed inside the Little Prince, folded with care.
Noah opened it, heart already skipping.
"Some days feel like waiting rooms. Others feel like homes.
I'm still learning the difference.
But today, today feels like a door slightly open.
I think I might walk through it. He smiled.
And placed it back where it belonged.