The city never truly sleeps. Even when the lights fade, the rain continues its quiet symphony on rooftops, windows, and the lonely hearts beneath them. On nights like this, Mira stands by the glass, tracing invisible lines with her fingertip—lines that used to be his name.

They met in the rain two years ago. He had offered her his umbrella, half broken and trembling in the wind, yet his smile was steady. “You can keep it,” he said. “Rain always remembers kindness.” She laughed, and from that laugh, their story began.

Every Sunday after, they would walk under one umbrella. Sometimes they spoke about the future, sometimes about nothing at all. It didn’t matter. The silence between them was its own language.

Then came the day the rain didn’t stop. The city drowned for three days straight. He left without a word, leaving only a folded paper on her table: “If the rain ever pauses, I’ll be there.” It never did—until now.

Tonight, the storm softens. Mira steps outside, her shoes sinking into puddles. The streets glisten with memory. A figure stands beneath the flickering streetlamp. He wears the same gray coat, soaked and shimmering.

“You kept the umbrella,” he says softly.

“You kept your promise,” she answers.

They don’t run to each other. They simply stand—two silhouettes connected by the hum of the rain, by everything that was said and unsaid. The world around them blurs. The rain, once cruel, now feels like forgiveness.

“What happens now?” she whispers.

He looks up at the dark clouds. “We let the rain decide.”

Their hands brush briefly before the thunder swallows the sound. And just like that, the rain begins again—harder, endless. When she opens her eyes, he’s gone. Only the umbrella remains, leaning against her door, dry despite the storm.

Tomorrow, the sun might return. Or it might not. But Mira knows one thing: the rain will remember. It always does.