Chapter 9
The sky was a muted gray, heavy with unshed rain, as Nova walked the quiet streets alone. The city felt different in this weather—softened, blurred at the edges—like the world itself was holding its breath. She pulled her coat tighter around her, trying to shield herself not just from the chill, but from the storm swirling inside.
Her mind replayed the night before—the fire, the words, the fragile hope sparked between her and Bea. It was a delicate thread they both clung to, even if neither was sure how much longer it would hold.
Nova's steps slowed as she reached the old café where they first met, the place where the world seemed to pause and their story began. The bell above the door jingled softly as she entered, the familiar scent of coffee and worn books wrapping around her like an old friend.
Bea was there, sitting by the window, lost in a notebook filled with scribbles and sketches—the language of dreams and fears laid bare. Their eyes met, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.
Nova slid into the seat across from her, the silence between them heavy but charged. "You still write," she said softly.
Bea nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It's the only thing that keeps me sane."
They talked then—not about the past, not about the pain—but about the future, fragile and uncertain as it was. About the flames they carried inside, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, those flames could burn brighter together.
Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall, tracing patterns on the glass like the start of something new.