Rain again. Cold. Grey.
She was there. Same spot. Across the café. Hugging that sketchbook like it was the only thing left.
Zane didn't mean to see her.
But he did.
Through the car window, foggy from his breath and the damn heater.
Didn't know her name. Didn't matter. Yet.
But there was something in the way she stood. Still. Like she'd cracked and no one noticed.
Wet hair. Clung to her cheeks like ivy. Her eyes blank.
Like she wasn't really here.
She didn't flinch when thunder hit. Just blinked. That's all.
Zane leaned forward, elbows on knees. Rain blurred the glass. He could still see her.
Third day now. Same time. Same clothes.
Same ghost look.
"She's here again," he muttered.
The driver looked in the mirror. Didn't ask. Smart.
Zane wasn't talking to him anyway.
The girl...she didn't move much. Just stared at the art gallery. Like she was waiting for something that wasn't coming.
Zane didn't get it.
Didn't like not getting it.
His chest...tightened. Not pain. Not really. Just pressure. The kind that makes you sit up straighter.
Jean couldn't feel her fingers.
Sketchbook was soaked, pages curling at the edges. She held it tighter.
The rain didn't bother her.
The silence of home did.
It was louder than thunder.
She blinked water from her lashes and stepped away from the gallery. Crossed the street. Fast. The café on the corner maybe they'd say yes today.
She pushed open the door, bell above jingled.
The warmth hit her like a slap.
Behind the counter, the barista looked up. Frowned.
"You again?"
Jean tried to smile. It didn't land right.
"I was wondering if there's any opening. I can work late. Or early. Or clean. Or..."
"No," the woman cut in. "We're full. Try next month."
Jean nodded. Swallowed. "Okay. Thanks."
She stepped back out. Rain again. Harder now.
Zane saw her come out.
Didn't hear what was said. Didn't need to.
He saw her face. The way her shoulders dropped.
She looked like someone who was used to hearing no.
His jaw tightened.
He didn't like that.
Didn't like how his eyes followed her like a damn reflex.
Wasn't just the face.
Or the way her clothes stuck to her like she didn't even notice.
It was the...stillness. The weight.
She carried something heavy. You could see it, even if you didn't want to.
Chains, maybe.
Invisible ones.
She didn't see the car. Didn't see him.
She crossed the street again. Head down. Soaking. That sketchbook still to her chest like it held her together.
Zane clenched the armrest. Knuckles white.
He didn't get it.
Didn't want to get it.
But he couldn't stop looking.
Couldn't stop wondering.
Who the hell was she?
He sat back. Eyes still on her.
"I want to know who she is," he said.
The driver blinked. "Sir?"
"The girl. Get her name. Where she lives. What she does. Everything."
A beat.
"Quietly."
Zane didn't look away until she turned the corner. Out of sight.
He still saw her.
Still heard the quiet in her footsteps.
He didn't do this. Didn't do strays. Didn't do saving.
But something about her...
It stuck.
Like a splinter under the skin.
And splinters fester if you leave them alone.
She looked like someone who'd survived too much.
Told no one.
The kind of girl who wore silence like armor.
And sadness like perfume.
Faint. But impossible to forget.