After the Rain, Blooms

The rain had been persistent. It clung to everything – the pavement, my hair, even the edges of my thoughts.
I’d spent weeks building walls, brick by careful brick, after a disappointment that felt… substantial. A fortress of polite silences and averted glances.

Then he appeared at the tea shop, not seeking anything in particular, simply ordering a chamomile and watching the steam curl upwards. He didn't speak to me directly, just observed. It wasn’t intrusive; it was… gentle.
He left a single white rose on my table this morning – one that hadn’t been touched by rain.

I traced its petal with my fingertip, feeling the delicate curve against my skin. There's no need to analyze the gesture, or force an interpretation. Sometimes, warmth simply arrives, like a stray sunbeam through clouds.
It doesn’t demand a response. It merely *is*.

I finished my tea, and watched him walk away. The walls remained, but they felt… less urgent. Perhaps letting the rain pass over them is enough. Perhaps all there ever was to do was simply be present with the quiet bloom that had unexpectedly begun.

Editor: The Tea Room