The streetlight outside flickered twice, humming faintly with static.
Michael noticed it immediately — a sound sharp enough to wake something buried in his instincts.
Years of military life had trained him to sense the smallest fracture in silence.
Nora didn't seem to notice. She was curled up on the couch, knees drawn close, eyes fixed on the blurred light through the rain-streaked glass.
"Do you have trouble sleeping too?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah," he said. "Got used to being awake at night."
"Why?"
"Too much noise in the day."
"But the quiet makes you think too much."
He smiled faintly. "That's the only thing I still know how to do."
She looked at him, lips twitching as if she might laugh but held it back.
"You're not what I expected."
"Oh? What did you expect?"
"Someone like you — retired, quiet, meticulous — I thought you'd barely talk."
He shrugged. "You're not wrong."
They both laughed softly.
There was no joy in the sound, only warmth — a small confirmation that they recognized something in each other.
The kind of understanding that only the lonely can share.
Time stretched inside that laughter.
Nora rose and walked toward the window, brushing her fingertips against the cold glass.
"Listen," she said.
Far away, a siren wailed — long, thin, then cut off by the wind.
"Another roadblock, maybe," she murmured.
"Roadblock?"
"Yeah. The news said there was an explosion downtown — some chemical plant."
Michael's nerves tightened instantly. He didn't speak, just watched her reflection against the window.
The air still smelled of rain, but underneath it lingered something faint — a metallic burn.
The city lights were still on, but dimming.
He poured two glasses of water and handed her one.
"Doesn't sound like a simple accident."
"What do you think it is?" Nora asked, turning to face him.
"It's too quiet," he said, his voice low.
For a moment, their eyes met.
Nora's gaze was deep as the night outside — uncertain, yet trusting.
In that silence, they understood each other completely. No explanation needed.
She sat back on the couch, resting against the cushions.
"Sometimes I think we're all running," she said softly. "Just… in different directions."
He listened.
"Some run from marriage, some from work, some from themselves."
"And you?" he asked.
She smiled — calm, almost serene. "Maybe I'm running from life itself."
He didn't press her.
Inwardly, he thought she was stronger than she appeared. There was a steadiness in her tone — the kind only people who have been hurt learn to carry.
The wind rose again, lifting the corner of the curtain.
Time trickled by, the air thick with humidity and the faint scent of electricity.
Michael leaned back at the other end of the couch, eyes half closed, glass in hand.
"I envy you a little," Nora said suddenly.
"Me?"
"At least you know what you're afraid of."
"What about you?"
She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "I'm not afraid of anything. But I don't want anything either."
The words drifted through the room like a cool gust of air.
Michael opened his eyes.
There was light in hers — fragile, like a flame caught in the rain, flickering but refusing to die.
After a long silence, he said, "Maybe that's freedom."
"Freedom?" she repeated, almost smiling. "Freedom's just what's left when no one tells you what to do."
They both laughed again, soft and weary.
Outside, the streetlights flickered more violently. A car passed, its tires cutting through puddles, then the sound disappeared.
Michael walked to the window and lifted the curtain.
The street was empty — only the reflection of orange light floating on the water.
And suddenly he understood: the city's calm wasn't peace.
It was the stillness of a deep well, and they were standing at the bottom, too far to hear the storm above.
Behind him, Nora spoke. "Do you believe in fate?"
"Fate?" he turned, a faint smile touching his lips. "No. I believe in accidents."
"Why?"
"Because fate sounds gentle. Accidents feel real."
She blinked, then laughed — clear and brief, but edged with sadness.
The night was nearing its end.
Neither of them spoke anymore.
The city breathed beneath them, the air thick with rain and metal.
Michael's consciousness began to blur. Somewhere, faint sirens echoed, then fell silent.
Nora leaned back, her eyes closing slowly.
The lamp cast a soft glow across her face, tracing the fatigue beneath her calm.
Michael sighed.
He realized then — they weren't searching for anyone.
They were just searching for somewhere to rest.
He dimmed the light and sat again.
Outside, rain began to fall once more.
The wind pressed against the glass.
The city swayed between dream and waking,
and in the darkness, he heard his own breathing —
steady, human, alive.
Deep in the night, something unseen began to stir.