It rained on a Thursday.
Not the kind of storm that cracked open the sky like before, but a soft, steady drizzle that misted the sidewalks and blurred the edges of the world. The kind of rain that felt like a secret being whispered through the air.
Jo stood under the awning of Bean & Bloom Café , heart thudding in her chest like a drumbeat she couldn't silence. She wore her favorite sweater — soft gray wool with a hole near the elbow she never got around to mending — and held the black umbrella with the red ribbon tightly in one hand.
She had no idea what he looked like.
Just that his name was Daniel.
That he worked at a bookstore.
And that, somehow, over time, he had become someone she missed without ever really knowing him.
She checked her phone again. No messages. Just the quiet sound of rain tapping gently against the pavement.
Then she saw him.
He approached slowly, head slightly lowered as if bracing for something. He wore jeans and a green sweater — the same one from that first day — and carried a striped navy-and-white umbrella in one hand. As he stepped closer, Jo's breath caught.
It was him.
The man from the café. The stranger who had told her to take the umbrella.
He stopped a few feet away, eyes meeting hers with a look that was both surprised and warm.
"You came," he said softly.
"So did you," she replied, voice barely above the rain.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I wasn't sure I'd recognize you."
"I don't think I recognized you either," she admitted. "At first."
They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other — two people who had shared pieces of their hearts without ever saying their names aloud.
Daniel lifted the umbrella a little higher, shielding them both.
"Can I buy you a coffee?" he asked.
Jo nodded. "I'll pay for mine."
He chuckled. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
Inside, the café smelled like cinnamon and wet wool. They ordered side by side — lavender latte for her, black coffee with honey for him — and found a table by the window where they could watch the rain fall in long, silver lines.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Daniel reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper — the note she had written on the forget-me-not day.
"I kept this," he said, sliding it across the table.
Jo stared at it.
"It reminded me of my mom," he continued. "She used to press flowers too. Said it was her way of saving a little bit of summer."
Jo swallowed, touched by the quiet honesty in his voice.
"I kept yours too," she said, reaching into her bag. She pulled out the origami crane and the note he'd left the first time. "This was the first gift I ever got from a stranger. It made me feel… seen."
Daniel looked at her then — really looked — and something shifted between them. Not dramatic or loud, but deep, like roots settling into soil.
"I didn't mean for any of this to go this far," he admitted. "I just wanted to leave something good in the world. Something small and kind."
"And now here we are," Jo said quietly.
"Here we are," he echoed.
Outside, the rain slowed to a hush.
Jo glanced at the umbrella leaning beside the table — hers still wrapped in the red ribbon, his resting beside it like an old friend.
"We could skip the umbrellas now," Daniel said, echoing her thoughts.
Jo smiled. "Maybe. But I kind of like them."
He laughed. "Me too."
There was a pause — not awkward, but full. Like the space between notes in a song.
Then Jo leaned forward slightly, eyes searching his. "So… what now?"
Daniel considered her for a moment, then answered honestly:
"Now, we see what happens when the storm passes — and the sun comes out."
Jo nodded, feeling something settle inside her. Not finality. Not certainty. But possibility.
Hope.
And outside, as if sensing the shift, the clouds parted just enough for a single beam of light to slip through.
Rain had brought them together.
But maybe, just maybe, it was time for something new.