Chapter 2

The next morning, sunlight crept through my curtains, painting pale lines across the floor. My room smelled faintly of oil paint — a scent I hadn't woken up to in months. The unfinished painting stood on my easel, still wet from last night’s brushstrokes.

I stared at it as I sipped my tea. The face wasn’t entirely clear, but I could tell it was him — Rand, the man from the café. The stranger who’d looked at me like he could see something beyond the quiet walls I built.

I smiled despite myself. You’re being ridiculous, I thought. It was one conversation. One moment.

But as the morning passed, my mind drifted back to the sound of his laugh, the steadiness in his eyes, the warmth of his voice when he’d said, “Maybe it’s not something we’re waiting for. Maybe it’s someone.”

By afternoon, the clouds began to gather again, rolling over the city like grey silk. The air grew thick with the promise of more rain.

My neighbour, Mrs Callahan, called from the balcony, “Looks like another storm’s coming, dear! You might want to close your windows.”

I smiled faintly. “Maybe I’ll leave them open for a while.”

Because for once, I didn’t dread the rain.

My feet carried her back to Willow Brew, though I told myself it was only for coffee. I didn’t admit — even to myself — that part of me hoped he might be there.

The moment I pushed open the door, the familiar chime sounded. And there he was.

Rand sat by the same window where I had once watched the storm. His laptop was open, a pencil tucked behind his ear, and a small smile curved his lips as he sketched something on paper.

He looked up just as I entered, and his smile widened instantly.

“Elena,” he said, as if he’d been waiting.

I froze for a second, caught between surprise and warmth. “You remember my name.”

“Of course,” he said easily. “You’re hard to forget.”

My cheeks flushed lightly. “You say that to all the women who wander into cafés on rainy days?”

“No,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Only the ones who look like they’re hiding from the world.”

That made me laugh, soft and genuine. “Then I guess that’s me.”

“Join me?” he asked, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I hesitated — only for a heartbeat — before sitting down.

Rain began to fall again, light at first, then steadier, tapping the window like fingertips on glass.

“So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “you work here often?”

He closed his sketchbook. “Sometimes. I’m working on a project — an art centre, actually. I like the noise here. It feels alive.”

“An art centre?” I asked, interest flickering in my eyes.

He nodded. “A small one. Community-based. Somewhere kids and adults can come to paint, read, and make music. I want it to be a place where art feels reachable.”

I tilted my head, smiling softly. “You talk about it like it’s personal.”

“It is,” he admitted. “I grew up in a neighbourhood that didn’t believe in dreams. Architecture was my escape. So now, I try to build spaces where other people can dream too.”

I watched him quietly, realising that beneath his easy smile was a man with depth — one who’d also learned to build something from emptiness.

After a moment, he asked, “Do you still paint?”

My fingers tightened around her cup. “Not much anymore.”

“Why not?”

I gave a small, humourless smile. “The last time I painted for an exhibition, people said my work was too quiet. That it didn’t sell feelings, just sadness.”

Rand frowned. “Maybe that’s what made it real.”

I blinked. “Real doesn’t always mean successful.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “But it means honesty. And honest things last longer.”

Something inside me stirred. His words were simple, but they carried a weight I couldn't ignore.

He leaned forward slightly. “You should start again.”

I laughed lightly. “You make it sound easy.”

“Maybe it could be,” he said. “You just need a reason.”

Our eyes met. For a heartbeat, the world outside faded — the rain, the chatter, even the faint music playing in the background. There was only the space between us, full of possibility.

He smiled. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a reason.”

“What kind of reason?”

“I need a mural for that art centre. A wall full of life — something that speaks to people who’ve forgotten how to dream. Would you be interested?”

My lips parted in surprise. “You’d want me to paint it?”

“Why not you?”

“I’m not exactly famous,” I said with a nervous laugh.

“Good,” he replied, eyes warm. “Famous artists paint for galleries. I want someone who paints for people.”

I didn’t know what to say. My heart thudded with a strange mix of fear and excitement.

“I’ll think about it,” I said softly.

“Good enough for me,” he said, standing as he closed his laptop. “Think about it — and say yes tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I asked, amused.

He shrugged playfully. “I’m an impatient man when it comes to good things.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “You don’t even know if I’m good.”

“I can tell,” he said simply.

That quiet confidence caught me off guard. I wanted to believe him — wanted to believe that someone finally saw more in me than doubt.

When we stepped outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle. The air smelled of wet leaves and coffee.

We walked together down the street again — this time slower, our steps falling into an easy rhythm.

At the corner where we would part ways, Rand paused. “Elena?”

“Yes?”

He smiled. “Don’t let other people decide the sound of your silence.”

I blinked, startled by the poetry of his words. “And what does that mean?”

“It means the world’s too loud already,” he said with a half-smile. “Maybe what you paint is exactly what people need.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving me standing under the fading rain, my heart oddly full.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat before my easel, staring at the blank canvas for what felt like hours.

And then — slowly — I began to paint.

Not because I was trying to prove anyone wrong. Not because I needed approval.

Bu

t because a stranger with storm-colored eyes had reminded me what it felt like to be seen.

And that, I realised, was reason enough.