Chapter 3

It’s strange how a single conversation can echo for days.

Rand words — “Maybe your quiet is exactly what people need” — have followed me everywhere, like a song I can’t stop humming.

I'm not sure, but it feels genuine. I may sound ridiculous

Or odd but it sounds real and genuine at the same time.

For three mornings in a row, I found myself standing in front of the easel before even making coffee. The blank canvas no longer scared me. It looked… forgiving.

That afternoon, I finally said yes.

I met Rand at the construction site of the art centre. The building was still half a skeleton — a shell of steel and dust. Yet somehow, it already felt like a place that could breathe.

He stood in the middle of it all, wearing a white shirt splattered with dust, blueprints tucked under his arm. His hair was slightly messy from the wind. When he turned and saw me, he smiled like he’d been waiting all day.

“You came,” he said.

“I told you I’d think about it,” I replied, crossing my arms.

“And?”

“I thought about it.”

“And?” His grin widened.

“And… yes.”

He exhaled dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Finally. I was beginning to lose hope.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who gives up easily,” I said.

“Only when it comes to people I don’t believe in,” he said, eyes locking with mine. “You’re not one of them.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I looked away — but the warmth that filled my chest was impossible to hide.

He showed me around, explaining his vision. The walls were bare concrete, but I could already imagine them bursting with colour.

“I want this wall to tell a story,” he said, pointing to the largest one. “A story of starting again.”

“That’s vague,” I teased.

“Good,” he replied. “It means you’ll have to fill in the blanks.”

We spent hours sketching ideas. I watched the way he talked — with his hands, with his whole heart. He wasn’t just building walls; he was building meaning.

When the sun dipped low, he said, “Let’s take a break. There’s a street vendor down the road — best noodles in the city.”

We sat outside, sharing a paper box of steaming noodles as the sky turned orange. I hadn’t laughed that much in months.

“Why do you love storms so much?” I asked between bites.

He smiled thoughtfully. “Because they remind me that peace isn’t the absence of chaos — it’s surviving through it.”

I nodded slowly. “That’s… beautiful.”

He shrugged. “What about you? Why do you love painting?”

I thought for a while before answering. “Because it’s the only time I can speak without explaining myself.”

He looked at me for a long moment, then said softly, “Then keep speaking.”

Something about that moment — the fading light, the warmth of his gaze — made me feel like the world had slowed down just for us.

When I got home that night, I opened my window. The scent of rain drifted in again, soft and familiar. I sat by the easel, opened my sketchbook, and began to draw the first outlines for the mural.

For the first time in a long while, my hands didn’t tremble.

---

The next few weeks passed in colours.

Every morning, I went to the site. Rand was always there before me — sometimes holding a cup of coffee, sometimes already covered in sawdust.

He’d help mix the paints, bring me sandwiches, and sometimes just stand silently and watch me work.

We talked about everything — his late father, who taught him to draw blueprints on napkins, my mother, who used to hum while cooking, and our shared fear of failing at the things we loved most.

One afternoon, while I painted a burst of golden light across the top of the mural, I said, “It feels strange, painting in public again. Like people can see every mistake I make.”

He looked at me from the scaffolding and said, “Mistakes are proof you’re alive.”

I smiled faintly. “You sound like a quote calendar.”

“Maybe,” he said with a smirk. “But I mean it.”

Then he added, quieter, “You’ve been smiling more lately.”

That made my brush pause. “Have I?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It suits you.”

The rest of that day, I couldn’t stop smiling — even when I tried to.

---

One evening, the sky broke open with rain again. Most of the workers went home, but I stayed, watching how the droplets hit the half-painted wall. Rand came up beside me, his jacket already soaked.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” he said.

“So are you,” I countered.

He laughed, brushing a strand of wet hair from my face. His fingers lingered a second too long.

“I’ve never seen anyone look happier in a storm,” he said.

“Maybe I just stopped running from them,” I whispered.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The rain poured harder, washing the dust off the walls, the streets, maybe even off both of us.

Then, without warning, he stepped closer — close enough for me to hear his heartbeat beneath the rain.

“Elena,” he said softly, “sometimes I think we meet people exactly when we’re ready to start again.”

I looked up at him, my heart trembling. “And what are we starting?”

He smiled. “Something honest.”

Then he leaned in and kissed me.

It wasn’t wild or rushed. It was quiet — like the rain itself, steady and real. The kind of kiss that doesn’t demand promises but somehow makes one anyway.

When we finally pulled away, I laughed nervously. “You know this makes working together very complicated, right?”

He grinned. “Good art always comes from chaos.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

That night, when I went home drenched and breathless, I painted until d

Awn.

Not out of pain this time — but out of love.

For the storm, for the silence, and for the man who made both feel like home.