Rain has a strange way of softening everything.
The sound of it against the windows, the scent of wet pavement, the way it blurs the edges of the city — it all feels like someone took an eraser to the world, leaving only faint outlines.
I've always liked rainy mornings.
They make me feel less alone.
It was one of those mornings when I saw her again.
The café was quiet, the soft hiss of the espresso machine filling the space. I was polishing glasses behind the counter when the doorbell chimed — that small silver ring that always sounded like the start of something.
She stepped in, shaking her umbrella. Her hair was damp again, strands clinging to her cheeks.
"Back so soon?" I asked, trying not to sound too pleased.
She smiled faintly. "You said you're always open for a cup of coffee."
I chuckled, gesturing toward her usual seat near the window. "Guess I did."
The city outside was grey and muted, but inside the café, the warm light made everything glow softly — the steam rising from cups, the reflections in the window, even the rain itself.
I brought her a cappuccino without asking what she wanted. She noticed.
"You remembered," she said.
"Hard to forget someone who said my café felt like a memory."
Her lips curved into a small smile. "Did I really say that?"
"You did. I think you were right, too."
She looked out the window for a long moment before replying. "Then maybe I keep coming back because I still have something to remember."
Her words made something stir in me — a quiet ache, like recognizing a song you used to love but haven't heard in years.
We started talking more after that.
Her name was Miyu. She was a freelance writer, or so she said — the kind of person who always carried a notebook but rarely wrote anything in it.
"I like observing people," she told me once. "Sometimes watching is easier than writing."
I understood that more than I wanted to admit.
Because that's what I'd been doing, too — watching life pass by without daring to paint it again.
I told her about my parents, about Erika, about how I left the Rainsfeld estate behind. She listened quietly, never interrupting. When I apologized for talking too much, she just shook her head.
"You talk like you're afraid your voice might disappear," she said.
Maybe she was right.
After she left that day, I sat by the window long after closing time, watching the reflections of raindrops slide down the glass. My sketchbook was open, and without thinking, I began to draw.
Not the café.
Not the street outside.
But her.
The way she rested her chin on her hand while looking at the rain. The way her hair framed her face like soft shadows.
When I was done, I stared at the drawing for a long time.
It wasn't perfect — the lines were hesitant, uneven — but there was something alive in it. Something I hadn't felt in years.
Maybe art isn't about perfection.
Maybe it's about capturing what you feel before it disappears.
Erika noticed the drawing the next morning.
"Who's that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Just a customer," I said, pouring tea into her cup.
She smirked. "Uh-huh. You don't draw customers unless they're special."
I tried to laugh it off, but she was right — I hadn't drawn anyone since our mother passed.
Erika leaned back in her chair, her voice softer now. "You should draw more, Allen. Mom would've wanted that."
I wanted to tell her that it wasn't that simple. That every time I held a pencil, I felt her ghost behind me — the faint scent of turpentine, the gentle hum she used to make while painting.
But Erika's eyes were bright, hopeful.
So I just nodded. "Maybe I will."
The next time Miyu visited, I had her drawing hidden beneath the counter.
She ordered a latte this time and asked if she could sit closer to the counter instead of the window.
"Rain again," she said, watching droplets slide down her umbrella. "Feels like the city only knows two moods — sunny and sad."
"Maybe it just reflects us," I replied.
She laughed quietly. "That's a very writer thing to say. You sure you're not one?"
"Painter," I corrected. "Or… I used to be."
Her eyes lit up. "Used to?"
I hesitated, unsure how much to say.
"It's complicated."
She didn't push. She just looked at me for a moment, then nodded, like she understood something unspoken.
"Sometimes," she said softly, "the hardest thing about creating is forgiving yourself for stopping."
That line stuck with me.
Even after she left, even after the café lights went out — her words echoed like a heartbeat.
Weeks passed.
The rain gave way to early summer warmth.
Erika's exams ended, and she spent most evenings sketching by the balcony, humming to herself.
One evening, I joined her.
She looked surprised. "You're not working late?"
"Closed early. Slow day."
We sat side by side, the city lights flickering below us.
I handed her one of my old sketchbooks. "Thought you might want this. There's still space inside."
She smiled. "Only if you draw with me."
I hesitated, but she was insistent. So we drew — clumsy lines at first, then slow, thoughtful strokes.
For the first time in years, it didn't hurt.
I realized something simple but profound:
Art wasn't about holding on to the past.
It was about remembering how to see beauty again, even in pain.
A few days later, Miyu came back to the café with her notebook full of scribbles.
"You inspired me," she said.
I blinked. "Me?"
"You told me once that every cup of coffee tells a story depending on who drinks it. I wrote about that."
She showed me a page — messy handwriting, ink smudged in places, but full of warmth.
It was titled "The Barista Who Painted with Words."
I didn't know what to say.
"Can I read it someday?" I asked.
She smiled. "Only if I can see one of your paintings."
My heart stuttered a little.
"Deal," I said.
That night, after closing the café, I went home and dug out the old wooden box I hadn't opened in years. Inside were my brushes, dried tubes of paint, and a small, half-finished canvas of our family garden.
The colors had faded, but the memory hadn't.
I cleaned the brushes, replaced the canvas, and set it near the window.
Then, as the rain began to fall again, I started painting.
It wasn't grand or perfect — just the quiet street outside our apartment, the reflection of the neon sign, the faint glow of the convenience store lights.
But as I painted, I felt something inside me loosen.
Grief didn't vanish — it simply found a new color.
Erika peeked into the room halfway through.
"Hey," she whispered, eyes wide. "You're painting again."
"Yeah," I said softly. "Guess I am."
She smiled, a little tearful. "Welcome back."
Her words broke me more gently than anything else could have.
Later that week, Miyu came again — this time carrying a small frame wrapped in paper.
"A trade," she said, handing it to me.
Inside was a printed copy of her story, framed with care.
I gave her my painting — the one of the rainy street.
She traced the brushstrokes with her finger. "It feels alive."
"It's just rain," I said.
She shook her head. "No. It's what's beneath the rain — that quiet feeling that says, 'you survived another day.'"
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The café was empty, the world outside washed in silver light.
And somehow, it felt like everything was finally in its place.
That night, as I walked home under the drizzle, I realized something simple:
Healing doesn't arrive with fanfare. It seeps in quietly — through laughter, through sketches, through strangers who become friends.
The city still hums with the same noise, the same flickering streetlight near our apartment.
But now, when it glows briefly as I pass beneath it, I no longer think of ghosts.
I think of color — soft, muted, but real.
Because sometimes, the color beneath the rain is the proof that you're still here.
> "Not every canvas begins with sunlight.
Some are born from storms —
and that's what makes the colors shine brighter."