Paris, Autumn. The city glistens under a soft drizzle. The Seine murmurs secrets as lovers pass by, umbrellas blooming like flowers in the mist.
Scene: The First Encounter
The rain had been gentle, almost shy. It tapped on cobblestones like a pianist warming up. Elara moved through the streets of Montmartre, her red umbrella a beacon in the gray. She wasn't running from the rain—she was chasing something she couldn't name.
Across the street, under the awning of a quiet café, stood a man with a camera. He wasn't taking photos. He was watching her.
Their eyes met.
It wasn't dramatic. No thunder. No music. Just a glance that lingered too long. Elara hesitated, then smiled—softly, like she'd just remembered something beautiful.
The man stepped forward, rain catching in his lashes. "You look like a memory I forgot to have," he said.
She laughed. "That's a terrible line."
"I wasn't trying to impress you," he replied. "I was trying to be honest."
They stood there, the rain wrapping around them like silk. Strangers. But not really.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Lucien."
"Elara."
He nodded, as if he'd known it all along.
And just like that, the world felt smaller. The rain, warmer. The silence between them—full of possibility.
They walked together, slowly, as if the city had given them permission to pause time. The rain had softened into mist, and Paris glowed with its usual magic—lamplight flickering on wet pavement, the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting from a nearby cart, accordion music echoing faintly from a distant alley.
Lucien spoke first. "I come here every Thursday. Same café. Same table. I wait for something to happen."
Elara tilted her head. "And today, it did?"
He nodded. "You happened."
She smiled, but there was a shadow behind it. "I don't usually talk to strangers."
"Neither do I," he said. "But you don't feel like one."
They reached the edge of the Seine, where the water shimmered like liquid silver. Elara leaned on the railing, watching the boats drift by. Lucien stood beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, but not close enough to touch.
"I used to dream of this," she said. "Paris. Rain. Romance. But dreams are tricky things."
"Why?"
"They don't always survive reality."
Lucien turned to her. "Then maybe we rewrite reality."
She looked at him, really looked. His eyes held stories. Regret. Hope. And something else—something that mirrored her own longing.
"I'm leaving in three days," she whispered.
"Then let's make these three days unforgettable."
They found shelter in the café where Lucien had first seen her. It was small, tucked between a bookstore and a florist, with fogged windows and the scent of cinnamon lingering in the air. The waitress greeted Lucien with a knowing smile—he was clearly a regular—but her eyes widened when she saw Elara.
Lucien gestured to the corner table. "This is where I write."
"You're a writer?" Elara asked, removing her coat.
"Sometimes. Mostly I collect moments. Like this one."
She sat across from him, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. "I used to write poetry. But I stopped."
"Why?"
She hesitated. "Because the person I wrote for stopped reading."
Lucien didn't press. Instead, he pulled out a small leather notebook and scribbled something. Then he tore the page and handed it to her.
It read:
If you ever write again, let it be for yourself. You deserve every word.
Elara blinked, surprised by the tenderness. "You don't even know me."
"I know the look in your eyes. I've worn it."
Outside, the rain began again—soft, steady, like a lullaby. Inside, time folded. They spoke of dreams, of places they'd never been, of fears they'd never voiced. Lucien told her about his mother's garden in Marseille, where lavender grew wild. Elara spoke of her childhood in Lagos, chasing fireflies with her sister.
Hours passed unnoticed.
When they finally stood to leave, Lucien reached for her hand. "Can I see you tomorrow?"
Elara nodded. "Same time?"
"Same rain," he said with a smile.
The next day, the rain returned—faithful, like a promise kept. Elara arrived at the café early, her red umbrella folded beside her. She wore a navy coat and a scarf that smelled faintly of jasmine. Lucien was already there, waiting with two cups of coffee and a notebook open between them.
"You came," he said.
"I said I would."
They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that feels like music. Outside, the world moved on—cars splashing through puddles, lovers huddled under awnings—but inside, time curled around them like steam from their cups.
Lucien tapped his pen against the table. "Tell me something you've never told anyone."
Elara hesitated. "I used to dream of being a dancer. I'd choreograph routines in my bedroom, pretending the floor was a stage."
"Why didn't you pursue it?"
"My father thought it was foolish. He said dreams don't pay bills."
Lucien scribbled something in his notebook. "Dreams don't pay bills. But they pay the soul."
She smiled. "Your turn."
Lucien looked out the window, then back at her. "I once fell in love with someone I never spoke to. I saw her every day on the train. She read poetry and wore mismatched socks. I never said a word."
"Why not?"
"I was afraid she'd ruin the fantasy."
Elara leaned in. "And me? Am I ruining yours?"
Lucien's gaze softened. "You're rewriting it."
They spent the afternoon wandering through the city—bookshops, art galleries, quiet gardens tucked behind wrought iron gates. At one point, they stumbled upon a street musician playing a haunting melody on a violin. Elara closed her eyes and swayed gently to the rhythm.
Lucien watched her, mesmerized. "You're dancing," he whispered.
She opened her eyes. "I guess I still do."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden light across the rooftops, Lucien reached for her hand. This time, she didn't pull away.
"I don't know what this is," she said.
"Neither do I," he replied. "But I know it's real."
That evening, they returned to the bridge where they first locked eyes. The rain had stopped, but the air still shimmered with its memory. Streetlamps cast golden halos on the water, and the city seemed to hold its breath.
Elara leaned against the railing, her fingers brushing the cool iron. "I leave in two days."
Lucien stood beside her, silent. The weight of time pressed between them.
"I wasn't supposed to meet anyone," she said. "This trip was meant to be a goodbye. To Paris. To a part of myself I thought I'd buried."
Lucien turned to her. "Then maybe I'm here to help you remember."
She looked at him, eyes glistening. "I don't want this to be a beautiful mistake."
"It's not," he said. "It's a beautiful beginning."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small envelope. "Open this when you're on the plane."
Elara took it, her hands trembling slightly. "What is it?"
"A letter. Not a goodbye. Just… a whisper."
They stood in silence, the city humming around them. Then, without warning, Elara stepped forward and kissed him—softly, like a secret shared. It wasn't dramatic. It was real.
When they parted, Lucien whispered, "Let's make tomorrow count."
Elara nodded. "Let's make it unforgettable."
And with that, Chapter 1 closes—not with an ending, but with a promise.