The rain had returned, soft and steady, painting the city in streaks of silver. It tapped against rooftops and umbrellas, pooled in the cracks of the pavement, and blurred the neon signs that flickered above the market stalls. Louvre stood beneath a rusted awning, his jacket damp and heavy, the scent of roasted chestnuts and engine oil clinging to the air around him.
He had sold umbrellas all afternoon—cheap ones, the kind that bent in the wind and leaked at the seams. Now, with only two left and the crowd thinning, he watched the city breathe. Cars hissed past, their headlights slicing through the mist. Somewhere above, in a tower of glass and steel, a girl named Venice was preparing to leave her world of chandeliers and marble floors.
She stepped into the lobby with practiced grace, her heels clicking against polished stone. Her driver waited outside, the car warm and silent, but Venice hesitated. Something in her chest felt tight, restless. She had spent the evening smiling at investors, nodding through conversations about mergers and expansion. Her father's voice still echoed in her ears: "You're the face of the future, Venice. Don't forget what's expected."
She didn't want to go home. Not yet.
"Take me through the market," she said suddenly. The driver blinked, confused. "Just drive slowly. I want to see something real."
Louvre didn't notice the car at first. He was watching the rain slide down the edge of his stall, wondering if he could stretch the coins in his pocket until Thursday. Then the sleek black vehicle rolled past, its windows tinted, its presence foreign among the cluttered stalls and shouting vendors.
It stopped.
The door opened, and Venice stepped out.
She wore a coral-red dress, simple but elegant, and a strand of pearls that glowed faintly in the streetlight. Her hair was loose, damp at the ends, and her eyes scanned the market with quiet intensity. Louvre stared, unsure whether to look away or step forward.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, the city fell silent. The rain softened. The neon signs flickered like stars.
Venice walked toward his stall, her heels clicking against wet stone. Louvre straightened, suddenly aware of the frayed cuffs of his jacket, the mud on his boots.
"Do you sell umbrellas?" she asked, her voice calm, curious.
He nodded, holding one out. "Five pesos."
She took it, fingers brushing his. "Thank you."
He expected her to leave, to return to the car and vanish into her world. But she stayed.
"What's your name?"
"Louvre."
She smiled. "Like the museum?"
He shrugged. "Not on purpose."
"I'm Venice."
"Like the city?"
She laughed softly. "Also not on purpose."
They stood there, two strangers beneath the same sky, divided by wealth but drawn together by something quieter—something the rain couldn't wash away.
And as the night deepened, neither of them knew that this moment, this simple exchange, would be the beginning of everything.