The rain had been falling steadily since morning, painting the city in hues of gray and silver. Pavement puddles mirrored the dull sky, and the sound of raindrops tapping umbrellas was like a quiet symphony of melancholy. A dull, colorless world smeared by water and memory. He walked through it like a ghost, his umbrella trembling slightly in his hand, though the wind was mild.
Then, she appeared.
Out of the crowd, through the curtain of rain, she walked toward him—black umbrella in hand, hair damp around her face, eyes focused ahead. There was something about her, something so familiar it froze him in place.
His breath caught in his throat.
'Could it be..'
His heart clenched—familiar in that way a nightmare becomes before you wake screaming.
He stopped.
Turned.
His eyes locked onto her retreating figure, hope clawing its way out of the grave he'd buried it in years ago. The kind of hope that shouldn't exist anymore. The kind that hurt to feel.
But it wasn't her.
Of course it wasn't her.
Just another face, another ghost with someone else's eyes.
How many times now? How many times had his mind done this—resurrected her from nothing just to rip her away again?
She had been dead for years. They'd buried her. He'd seen her in that casket. Touched her hand—cold, still, wrong.
And yet his heart still believed. Still betrayed him. Still conjured her from shadows and strangers and silence.
He turned back around, slowly, like every movement cost him years.
And he walked.
Through the rain. Through the ache. Through the unbearable silence where her voice used to be.
The world went on. People passed. Lights flickered.
And inside him, something screamed without sound.
Every step forward felt like betrayal. But standing still hurt more.