I never asked her to stay.
She just… did.
The sun had dipped low by the time we stopped playing our one-note melody. The air smelled of moss and distant rain. And the silence that followed felt full instead of empty.
She sat beside me on the piano bench — knees pulled to her chest, jacket sleeves too long. The cut on her cheek looked fresh. Her hands were rough.
But her presence felt… familiar. Like a thread I hadn't realized I'd lost until it slipped into my palm again.
I finally spoke.
"Do you live nearby?"
She shook her head.
"I walk. Always walking. Nowhere really stays safe."
Same answer I would've given.
There was something sad in the way she said it, but also something strong. She was like those stubborn weeds that bloom through the cracks in the road — ugly-beautiful. Alive.
I tried again.
"…What's your name?"
She looked down at her hands.
Then back at me.
"Rei."
Just that.
Soft as a breath.
And then she looked at me — directly this time — like she was searching for something behind my eyes.
"And yours?"
"…Aero."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "Like the sky?"
I nodded, embarrassed.
"My parents loved names with meaning."
She smiled, not mockingly. Just… softly.
"Mine did, too."
---
We didn't say much after that.
We explored the ruin together — silent companions in broken glass and faded pages. She found a blanket tucked in the far corner and offered it to me. I shook my head. Gave it back. She wrapped it around both of us anyway.
She was warm.
Or maybe I was just cold.
But that moment — shoulder to shoulder, breathing together in a world that had forgotten songs — I remember thinking:
Maybe we could keep walking. Together.
Not to escape the world.
But to carry pieces of it that still mattered.
---
As the stars bled through the cracks in the ceiling, Rei whispered something.
"I used to live near the coast. My dad played guitar every night after dinner."
"…That sounds nice."
"It was." She paused. "Then the rains came. And the sky stopped listening."
I didn't ask what happened next. I already knew. We all had that story.
But then she added, "But I still remember his songs. Even now."
And quietly, barely audible… she hummed.
Just two notes. Broken. Out of tune. But real.
I closed my eyes.
And for a moment, I imagined the ocean.