The air smelled of rain and lilacs that morning. The streets of Verona were still glistening from last night’s storm, and the café on Via della Luna opened its doors with the same quiet rhythm as it had every morning for thirty years. Behind the counter, Lucia wiped the tables, humming softly — the same song he used to hum.

Marco had left ten years ago. Ten summers, ten winters, ten sets of empty chairs where he used to sit with his notebook and black coffee. And though time had pressed forward, it had not softened his absence. It had simply taught her how to live around it.

Every day, Lucia kept one table by the window — the one where the sunlight always touched first. The locals called it *the waiting table*. She called it *faith*.

That morning, she was wiping the last teacup when the bell above the door chimed. She turned — and froze.

He looked older, thinner, a streak of silver in his hair. But his eyes… they were the same storm-gray that had once ruined and rebuilt her in equal measure.

“You kept the place,” he said quietly.

“You found your way back,” she replied.

He smiled faintly. “I never stopped looking.”

The café was silent except for the slow tick of the wall clock — the same one he’d fixed years ago. Lucia poured him a cup of coffee, her hands trembling slightly as she set it down.

“Still black?”

“Still bitter,” he said, taking a sip, “like goodbye.”

They both laughed — soft, uneven, like they were trying to remember how.

They talked for hours — about where life had taken them, about everything and nothing. Marco spoke of distant cities, of music halls and strangers, of nights when the sound of rain made him ache for home. Lucia spoke of the café, of her father’s passing, of how every morning still felt incomplete without the hum of his guitar.

“Do you ever think about that summer?” she asked.

He set his cup down. “Every time it rains.”

Their silence this time was not heavy. It was the kind of silence that forgives.

When dusk fell, the city glowed gold and amber. The rain returned, whispering softly against the glass. Marco rose, hesitated, and then reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small cassette tape, worn and cracked at the edges.

“The last song I never played for you,” he said. “I recorded it the night before I left.”

Lucia took it gently, her thumb tracing the label — *For when the summers feel too far away.*

“Why now?” she whispered.

He looked out the window. “Because I finally stopped running.”

The rain thickened, and for a moment, the world outside blurred into watercolor. He stood, hat in hand, and smiled — that same, reckless smile that had once changed everything.

“I have to catch the last train,” he said softly. “But maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe this time, the rain won’t wash it all away.”

He left without looking back. Lucia stood by the window until his shadow disappeared down the street. The café was quiet again, except for the ticking of the clock and the rain pressing its face against the glass, as if trying to see inside.

She walked to the old player in the corner — the one that hadn’t worked in years — and slid in the tape. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a melody filled the room, raw and distant, like sunlight filtered through tears.

It was imperfect, cracked in places, but it was *him*. Every note was a memory; every pause, a confession. Lucia closed her eyes and let the sound fill her until the rain and the music became one.

Outside, a train whistle echoed faintly through the fog — long, mournful, and final. But the melody kept playing.

She smiled through her tears. “Some summers,” she whispered, “never end.”