The rain fell in torrents, drumming on the university roof like the sky was trying to speak. Amina hugged her books tightly, searching for shelter under the library's old wooden awning. Her hair was damp, and her cheeks were pink from the cold, but she didn't mind.
Then someone appeared beside her.
"You look like you're waiting for the storm to apologize," a voice said, soft but confident.
Amina turned. There was a girl with short curls clinging to her forehead, eyes like amber catching the dim light. She smiled — not politely, not shyly — but as if she already knew something about Amina that no one else did.
"I'm waiting for it to stop," Amina replied, unsure why her voice shook slightly.
"Storms don't stop," the girl said, tilting her head. "They pass."
Amina felt a flutter in her chest, a strange warmth that had nothing to do with the rain.