Dust and Amber Light

The rain always smelled like regret. Like pavement and burnt coffee.
I used to chase it, let it soak through my bones, a perfect excuse for staying inside with the ghosts.
Then he started leaving these little notes – crumpled paper tucked into the cracks of the building, scribbled with directions to his favorite ramen shop and lines about how the city lights bled gold on wet asphalt.
He didn’t say much. Just… showed up when I needed a shield against the grey.
Tonight, he was holding my hand as we walked home, the air thick with humidity and something else – a quiet warmth that settled deep in my chest like a newly found stone.
My skin prickled under his thumb tracing circles on my palm.
Not grand gestures. Just… presence. Like finding a single perfect grain of sand after a storm.
He didn't look at me, but I knew he was seeing everything. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to start building something new from the wreckage.

Editor: Street-side Poet