Echoes in the Mist

The weekend crept in under a familiar gray sky, the drizzle a persistent companion through the days that followed Amara's train ride. She stood outside the indie bookstore she and Edith loved, its windows fogged with warmth against the damp chill. Her sweater sleeves bunched around her wrists as she tugged at them, debating whether to step inside. Edith had insisted on dragging her to a reading event—a poet Amara vaguely admired—but now, hesitation gnawed at her. Not because of the books or the promise of new words, but because of the faint, irrational hope that she might see him again. Noah.

She scolded herself for the thought. Cities were vast, indifferent machines, not stages for scripted reunions. Their train encounter had been a fluke, a fleeting intersection of lives that wouldn't cross again. And yet, as she pushed the door open, the bell jingling above her, her heart gave an involuntary lurch. There he was.

Noah stood near the poetry section, a slim volume cradled in one hand, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration. His jacket was slung over his arm, and the same navy sweater hugged his frame, though drier now, its edges softened by the bookstore's golden light. Amara froze near a display of hardcovers, her breath catching as she watched him turn a page, oblivious to her presence. She could slip away, pretend she hadn't seen him, keep this moment as a memory rather than a risk. But before she could decide, Edith burst through the door behind her, all sharp edges and unshakable energy.

"Is that him?" Edith whispered, her voice a conspiratorial hiss as she followed Amara's gaze. "Train Guy?"

"Shh," Amara snapped, heat creeping up her neck. But Edith was already in motion, striding toward Noah with the confidence of someone who'd never known doubt.

"Hi there," she called, loud enough to make Noah glance up, his expression shifting from surprise to amusement. "Are you the umbrella hero Amara won't shut up about?"

Amara groaned, resisting the urge to flee as Noah's lips curved into a grin. "Depends," he said, closing the book with a soft thud. "Does she talk about me that much?"

"Only when she thinks I'm not listening," Edith shot back, her grin wicked.

Amara stepped forward, desperate to reclaim some semblance of control. "Ignore her. She's incorrigible."

"I like her already," Noah said, his eyes flickering to Amara with a warmth that made her stomach flip. "What brings you here?"

"I come for the books," she replied, nodding toward the shelves. "Edith comes for the drama."

"Guilty," Edith said, then clapped her hands together. "You two should pick books for each other. Call it a cosmic test."

Amara shot her a glare, but Noah shrugged, unfazed. "I'm game."

She hesitated, her instinct to retreat warring with a curiosity she couldn't quite stifle. "Fine," she said at last, and they drifted apart into the aisles, the air thick with the scent of old paper and brewed coffee.

Amara wandered toward the essay section, her fingers trailing over spines as she searched for something that matched the quiet intensity she'd glimpsed in him. She settled on a collection—intimate, unhurried pieces about memory and place—and clutched it to her chest, stealing glances at Noah across the room. He moved with purpose, scanning titles, his brow creasing again as he weighed his options. When he approached her at last, he held a slim volume of poetry, its cover worn but elegant.

"For when the rain gets loud," he said, handing it to her.

She offered him the essays, her voice softer than she meant it to be. "This feels like you."

Edith watched from a nearby shelf, her smug delight radiating like heat. "Better than a movie," she muttered, loud enough for them to hear.

They lingered by the counter after paying, the poet's reading starting in the background—a low murmur of verses about loss and light. Noah asked about her favorite bookstores; she asked about the parks he'd designed. Their words wove a fragile bridge, tentative but real, until Edith tugged her toward the door with a promise of coffee.

Later, at a café down the street, Edith leaned across the table, her espresso steaming between them. "So, Train Guy's a poet now. Fate's not subtle, is it?"

Amara stirred her drink, deflecting with a shrug. "It's just a book."

"Uh-huh," Edith said, unconvinced. "The city's not done with him yet."

Amara didn't argue. She wasn't sure she wanted to. Back home, the poetry sat on her nightstand, unopened but heavy with possibility. The rain tapped against her window, a soft insistence, and she wondered if Noah was out there somewhere, listening to it too. The thought lingered, quiet but persistent, like the drizzle that refused to fade.