Chapter 1 – The City After the Rain
The city always smelled different after rain.
Nora liked that about it—the way the asphalt cooled down, the tram rails gleamed, and the cafés breathed out clouds of steam as people leaned closer over cups of coffee. It felt like the world exhaled, just for a moment.
She pulled her coat tighter around herself as she stepped out of the metro, the damp air clinging to her hair. The sky over the river was the color of old paper, heavy but calm. It had been nine months since her mother died, and Nora had learned that grief had its own weather. Sometimes it was a storm. Sometimes it was this: a gray stillness that soaked into everything.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Linh: How’s the mural going?
Linh: Don’t forget to eat. That’s an order.
Nora smiled faintly and typed back.
Nora: Still at the community center. I’ll eat when I deserve it.
She slid the phone away before her sister could nag her again.
The community center sat on a corner near the river, a low concrete building that someone had tried to soften with ivy and mismatched flower pots. Inside, echoing halls were filled with kids’ laughter, clattering sports equipment, and the faint smell of cheap detergent. This was where she spent most evenings now, volunteering to teach art to a bunch of restless teenagers who reminded her that life moved forward whether she felt ready or not.
She stopped in front of the wall she was supposed to turn into a mural. For weeks it had only been outlines—faint pencil sketches of hands reaching out toward each other, a city skyline, a river, scattered stars. Today was the deadline she had given herself to actually start painting.
But the idea of making something permanent terrified her.
Everything permanent had betrayed her in the past year.
“You’re early,” a voice said behind her.
Nora turned. Mateo, the center coordinator, was juggling a stack of boxes and a clipboard. His curly hair was damp from the rain.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Thought I’d come in before the chaos.”
“You and everyone else.” He nodded toward the entrance. “We’ve got a new volunteer coming in today. Group therapy facilitator for the adult grief sessions. Finally got the funding.”
Nora’s shoulders stiffened. “Oh. That’s good.”
“Maybe you could join one sometime,” Mateo said gently. “You know… instead of pretending paint can hold everything together.”
She tried to laugh it off, but her chest tightened. “I’m fine teaching the kids. That’s enough sharing for me.”
“Suit yourself.” He balanced the boxes against his hip and scribbled something on the clipboard. “If the new guy asks where the group room is, send him to the second floor, last door on the right.”
“New guy?” she echoed.
“Yeah. A psychologist, I think. Or counselor. Something like that. Name’s Elias.” Mateo frowned, flipping through papers. “Elias… Moreau. Do you know him?”
The air went thin.
The name hit her like a sudden drop in the ground—Elias Moreau, the boy who used to live three streets away, who had played guitar on her apartment’s rooftop, who had kissed her for the first time under a flickering streetlamp. The boy she had not seen in seven years.
She swallowed, her fingers digging into the strap of her bag. “No,” she lied easily. “Never heard of him.”
Mateo, distracted, didn’t notice. “Anyway. I’ll be in my office. Try not to scare him off on day one.”
When he disappeared down the hallway, the silence around Nora turned sharper. She stared at the blank wall, but her mind was somewhere else entirely: a hospital corridor, the taste of metallic air, a voicemail she had never answered.
It couldn’t be him. The city was huge. Names repeated themselves. People moved on. She had tried to.
The door behind her creaked open again.
“Hi, sorry,” a new voice said, slightly breathless. “I’m looking for the group therapy room? Or at least someone who knows where it is. I got lost in the sport hall, and a twelve-year-old just beat me at table tennis.”
Nora turned slowly.
He looked different and exactly the same. Taller, broader, hair a little longer and messy from the rain. The same hazel eyes, though—warm and tired at once. A soft stubble covered the jawline she remembered sketching absentmindedly in her notebooks.
Elias froze. The umbrella in his hand slipped and clattered to the floor.
“Nora?” he whispered.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears. “Hi,” she managed, her voice thinner than she wanted. “You’re… late. The group room’s upstairs. I’ll show you.”
He blinked as if pulling himself back together. “Right. Yes. That would be… great. Thank you.”
They walked down the hallway side by side, a careful distance between them, as if their memories were fragile glass they might step on. Nora kept her eyes fixed ahead, counting door numbers, willing herself not to look at him.
“So,” Elias said, forcing a small smile. “You work here?”
“I volunteer. Art classes.”
“That sounds like you.”
She hated and loved that he could still say that.
“And you?” she asked, mostly to fill the air. “Group therapy?”
“Yeah. I… specialize in grief counseling now.” There was a pause. “Felt appropriate.”
The word grief landed between them like a stone, heavy and cold.
They reached the staircase. Nora stopped, hand on the railing, finally letting herself look at him properly. There were faint shadows under his eyes, lines at the corner of his mouth that hadn’t been there before. Life had not been kind to him either, it seemed.
“You can find it from here,” she said quickly. “Second floor, last door on the right. Good luck, Dr. Moreau.”
“Nora—” His voice softened around her name. “Can we… talk later? After your class. Or mine. Just… sometime today.”
She hesitated. The safe answer was no. The safe answer was always no.
But the rain pressed against the windows, and the mural behind her remained unfinished, and the boy she once loved now stood in front of her with eyes that held the same apology she had never allowed him to say.
“Maybe,” she said, and walked away before he could see how her hands were shaking.
