The rain came and went, like an unpredictable visitor. Sometimes it would pour for days, sometimes it would vanish for weeks. But whenever the sky darkened and the air grew heavy with the smell of wet earth, Ren found himself walking the same path — the narrow road leading to the abandoned house.
It became a rhythm, a secret rhythm only the rain knew.
And more often than not, she was there.
Miyako would arrive before him sometimes, sitting by the window with her thermos of tea, eyes lost in the fog. Other times, she'd appear after him, brushing the rain off her coat and saying softly, "You beat me again."
They never said they were meeting. They simply were.
One afternoon, the rain was light, almost playful — not enough to flood, just enough to bring her. Ren had come early, carrying a small paper bag from the bakery near his school. Inside were two melon buns, still warm.
When Miyako stepped into the room, he stood up quickly, almost like a child caught doing something embarrassing.
"You brought food?" she asked, setting her umbrella aside.
He held out the bag. "I thought… maybe you didn't eat lunch."
She took it, surprised. "Why would you think that?"
"You just look like the type who forgets," he said.
She gave him a long look — the kind that seemed to reach somewhere behind his words — then smiled faintly. "You notice too much for someone your age."
They sat side by side on the wooden beam, the rain ticking softly outside. The air smelled faintly of bread and dust.
Miyako tore off a piece of the bun and took a small bite. "You're right," she admitted. "I skipped lunch."
"See?"
She shook her head, amused. "You shouldn't be so smug about guessing someone's bad habits."
"I'm not smug," Ren said, though his grin betrayed him.
They ate quietly for a while. He noticed how carefully she chewed, how she always wiped her hands before touching anything else. Her every movement seemed deliberate, restrained — the opposite of him.
"Do you come here because you're lonely?" he asked suddenly.
She didn't answer right away. "Sometimes. But mostly because I like quiet places that don't expect anything from me."
Ren tilted his head. "Expect?"
"People always expect something," she said. "At work, they expect efficiency. At home, they used to expect love. Even friends expect you to stay cheerful." She smiled, small and tired. "Here, the house doesn't care who I am."
Ren looked at her. "I care."
Her gaze flicked toward him, startled — just for a second. Then she laughed, a quiet, almost fragile sound.
"You don't even know me, Ren."
He blushed. "Then let me."
Miyako's smile faded, replaced by something unreadable. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll start believing them."
He didn't answer. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, whispering against the roof. The silence between them wasn't awkward anymore; it felt like something alive — fragile, growing.
She stood and brushed the crumbs from her skirt. "You're kind," she said softly. "But kindness is dangerous when it starts to feel like attachment."
Ren looked up at her, confused. "Is that what you think this is?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. "It's too early to think about what this is."
She picked up her umbrella, hesitated again at the door. "Thank you for the bread."
Ren wanted to say something — to stop her, maybe — but the words stayed trapped somewhere between his chest and throat.
After she left, he found the second melon bun still untouched beside him. He picked it up, took a small bite, and smiled bitterly.
It was cold now, but still sweet.
That night, he couldn't sleep. The house felt too quiet, his thoughts too loud. He thought of her voice, her hands, the faint sadness that never left her eyes.
He opened his notebook again, added another line under the poem he'd started:
"She carries the rain inside her eyes,and I think she forgets how beautiful that is."
He stared at the words until they blurred. Somewhere between wanting and understanding, something inside him shifted — just slightly, but enough to hurt.
He didn't know it yet, but the dreaming boy had already begun to fall.