Rain in the city always felt like punishment.
It came sideways — cold and sharp — bouncing off concrete and neon signs. Arun didn't bother opening his umbrella. The wind would only turn it inside out.
He walked without direction.
That had become his specialty.
Behind him were three unread messages.
Two missed calls.
One decision he refused to think about.
The alley shouldn't have been there.
He had taken this road hundreds of times before. Between a convenience store and an empty lot now stood a narrow stone passageway descending downward, swallowed in mist.
He would later swear it hadn't been there before.
But something in him was too tired to question impossible things.
He stepped down.
The air changed first.
It smelled like pine and damp earth instead of gasoline.
The rain softened.
The city sounds faded.
By the time he reached the bottom of the staircase, the storm was gone.
In its place stood a wooden archway carved with symbols he somehow understood but couldn't read.
Beyond it: lantern light.
And the soft sound of a kettle boiling.
A sign swayed gently.
Last Light Pavilion
Arun stared at it for a long time.
He should have turned back.
Instead, he pushed the door open.
The bell above it rang once — clear and bright.
A woman sat behind the counter, pouring tea into a porcelain cup as if she had been waiting exactly for this moment.
Without looking up, she said:
"You took longer than expected."
Arun's throat tightened.
"I think you have the wrong person."
She finally met his eyes.
"No," she said softly.
"I do not."
And for the first time in months, Arun felt something unfamiliar.
Not happiness.
Not fear.
But the fragile possibility that he had not yet ruined everything.