The Downpour and the Meeting

The sky had darkened gradually, a grey veil smothering the afternoon light. The storm had been brewing for hours, but it was only as G crossed a narrow alley that the rain suddenly fell, cold and heavy. She clutched her bag to her, her shoes slipping on the wet cobblestones. Seeking shelter, she pushed open the door of a small bookstore on the corner of the street.

Inside, the atmosphere was different, almost timeless. The air smelled of old paper and polished wood. A soft light fell from a hanging lamp, casting shadows in every corner. G shook her wet hair lightly, her cheeks flushed with cold. She let herself be guided by the narrow shelves, absently touching the bindings, searching for warmth rather than a particular title.

That's when she noticed him. At the back of the bookstore, near a shelf full of worn books, a man stood motionless. He seemed absorbed in a book, but his gaze did not move, fixed on an invisible point in front of him. He wore a dark, slightly wrinkled jacket and a scarf casually wrapped around his neck. There was something rigid about his figure, as if it contained a tension ready to burst.

G hesitated. She wasn't sure what had drawn her to this stranger. Maybe it was his melancholy expression, or the way he held the book, his fingers clenched on the cover, as if he were afraid to let go. She looked away, pretending to be interested in a nearby shelf, but she still felt his presence, heavy and magnetic.

A noise broke the silence: a book fell to the floor. G instinctively leaned over to pick it up, but B was quicker. Their hands did not touch, but a suspended moment settled between them. G looked up.

Her eyes were of a singular brilliance, like a flickering light in the darkness. They carried an almost childlike vivacity, but behind this clarity hid a shadow, a fragility that she did not seem to want to show. B, surprised by this unexpected depth, remained frozen for a moment, as if he were reading in these pupils fragments of memories that he had forgotten. G, feeling the weight of this look, turned his head slightly, his cheeks tinged with an imperceptible red.

G straightened up, holding the book she had picked up. Her fingers slid over the cover as if to give herself some composure. Without a word, she put it back on the nearby shelf. But even as she resumed her movements, she still felt B's gaze, discreet but present, like a shadow on her back.

B, for his part, had not moved. His immobility clashed with the imperceptible agitation that inhabited him. This moment had awakened something in him, a confused mixture of intrigue and apprehension. G's youth, the life that seemed to emanate from her, contrasted brutally with his own existence, marked by silences and absences. Yet he did not seek to hold her back or to pursue this fragile moment.

For her part, G moved forward through the aisles, but her mind was elsewhere. Each step seemed hesitant, as if she were waiting for another sign to manifest itself. The bookstore had regained its calm, disturbed only by the creaking of the boards under her feet and the murmur of the rain outside. She stopped in front of a window, her eyes falling distractedly on a book of poetry.

A shiver ran down her spine. Was it the coolness of her still damp clothes or the presence of this man she knew was always there? She clutched her bag to her, as if to protect herself from what she didn't yet understand.

Finally, she turned away. A deep, almost imperceptible breath accompanied her to the door. As she pushed it open, a breath of fresh air caressed her face, taking away some of her confusion.

On the other side of the window, B watched her walk away, her blurred reflection in the glass mingling with the raindrops. He hadn't moved, but in his hand, the book he was holding closed slowly. It wasn't the end. This shared moment, however fleeting, had marked something irreversible.

G walked slowly, away from the lit window of the bookstore. The rain had stopped, but the air was thick with humidity, and each breath seemed to carry an invisible heaviness. She stopped under an old stone arch, looking up at the gray sky that, despite the lull, remained threatening.

She took a notebook out of her bag, an old notebook with worn corners, and wrote a few words quickly. It had always been her refuge, a way to capture the elusive, to organize chaos. But this time, the sentences escaped her. How to transcribe what she had just experienced? That look, those shared silences, that strange feeling that a part of herself had remained behind, somewhere between the shelves of the bookstore.

At the same time, behind the foggy window of the bookstore, B had not moved. He was watching the outside, his blurred gaze vaguely following G's silhouette, which had become an indistinct point in the fog. He was still there, in this frozen space, as if held by a force he could not name.

He returned to his book, but the words no longer made sense. The lines, which he read and reread, seemed to slip away under his distracted mind. He gently closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. Before leaving the place, his eyes scanned the bookstore one last time, as if to look for a trace of the passage of this stranger. But there was only the usual calm and the familiar smells.

Outside, the damp streets reflected the streetlights in a hazy light. B walked slowly, her steps echoing in the deserted alleys. Each drop of water that fell from the roofs seemed to mark the rhythm of a thought that refused to die: her.

An invisible link: G in his thoughts

Further on, G had stopped in front of a small fountain. The stagnant water, slightly agitated by the last drops of rain, seemed to reflect her own thoughts: fragmented, elusive. She leaned over, observing her reflection which, with each moment, deformed beneath the moving surface. Was it herself she saw, or a version of herself she no longer recognized?

She thought about this man. Not about his appearance, but about what he seemed to carry within him: an absence, a shadow that she had not been able to name. G felt a curious desire to understand, as if this stranger held a key, not for him, but for herself.

The parallel: B facing his past

In another alley, B had stopped in front of a lit shop window. Inside, customers were laughing, their joy echoing faintly through the half-open door. This ordinary sight, which might have reassured him in the past, only served to create a void within him. He looked away, his thoughts returning in spite of himself to this strange encounter.

He imagined going back, finding an excuse to stop her, to talk to her. But what would he have said? He was a stranger to himself, so how could he have been anything else to her?

He resumed his walk, his slow steps tracing a path he did not really choose.

Back to Solitude

Night was falling slowly. G, back in her room, put her notebook on the desk without even opening it. Her thoughts were too confused to find a clear meaning. She watched through the window the light of the street lamps reverberating on the wet asphalt.

She turned on a small lamp and took out a book from her own library. As she turned the pages, she stopped at a quote that caught her attention:

"Meetings are like mirrors. They do not reveal others to us, but what we seek in ourselves."

A shiver ran through her. Was this what she had felt? This unconscious need to find herself through others? She closed the book, troubled by the thought that a simple encounter could cause such inner chaos.

For his part, B entered his dark apartment. The room, half empty, was lit only by a small lamp at the corner of the table. He let himself fall onto the sofa, his hands shaking slightly. It was not because of fatigue or cold, but from an agitation that he did not yet understand.

On the coffee table, an old photograph lay next to an open book. He picked it up, looked at it for a moment, then put it down abruptly, as if the memory had become unbearable.

One night, two troubled souls

Night fell fully. G lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, searching in the darkness for answers she couldn't find. The images of the day came back in waves: the rain, the books, that look.

B, for his part, sat by the open window, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. The cool night wind seemed to carry with it a strange mixture of calm and torment.

Where everything seemed to have stopped for everyone, something had begun. An invisible, fragile, but inevitable connection had formed.