𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸
Rain preferred hesitation.
It never simply fell.
It wandered… lingered… listened… before touching earth.
The evening city shimmered beneath dim lanternlight, streets glossed with reflections that trembled each time carriage wheels disturbed shallow puddles. Thin threads of mist curled lazily around rooftops, slipping between chimneys and clock towers like forgotten breaths.
Inside the old transit carriage, warmth existed only as an argument against damp coats and fogged windows. The scent of wet wool and aging wood hovered quietly in the air, layered with the faint metallic tang of rain slipping through loose window seams.
She sat beside the far glass panel.
Quietly.
Almost carefully.
Her boots hovered just above the floor, swaying whenever the carriage jolted across worn metal tracks. Each movement caused droplets to slide downward along the window beside her, bending golden streetlights into melting rivers of amber that stretched and collapsed with every vibration.
She leaned her forehead against the glass.
Cool. Steady. Real.
Across her lap rested a sketchbook aged by travel and silence. The corners had softened like paper that had learned patience. The cover bore faint stains from places it had survived without complaint. Her fingers traced its edge slowly, as if confirming it still existed, before opening it halfway.
Charcoal petals unfolded across the page in delicate uncertainty.
She studied them.
Something was missing.
She could feel it… though she could not name it.
Her thumb brushed the drawing gently, smudging one petal into softer shadow. The flower almost appeared alive in its incompletion, like it had paused mid breath, waiting for permission to become something final.
Outside, distant thunder rolled across the horizon. Not violent. Just observant.
The carriage shuddered across uneven rails. A hanging lantern above swayed slightly, its chain whispering small metallic notes with each movement. The glow it cast trembled across passenger faces, turning ordinary expressions into fleeting portraits painted by moving light.
Passengers shifted in their seats. A child stirred before settling again against a weary shoulder. Two merchants across the aisle argued in hushed voices over inventory tallies that dissolved repeatedly into sighs. A woman near the rear adjusted a bundle of wrapped herbs, checking them with protective care each time the carriage jerked too sharply.
Conversations remained low, dissolving quickly into the rhythm of rainfall.
She preferred it that way.
Silence allowed thoughts to stretch without interruption.
Do unfinished things still count as beautiful…?
The thought arrived without invitation.
It lingered longer than she expected.
She turned another page in her sketchbook, revealing smaller studies of petals drawn from different angles. Some were shaded carefully. Others existed only as fragile outlines, abandoned halfway through existence.
The carriage slowed briefly as it approached a minor station platform. The doors opened with a reluctant sigh, allowing a rush of colder rain scented air to slip inside. A few passengers stepped off. Others boarded, shaking water from their coats, bringing with them fragments of outside conversations that faded as quickly as they arrived.
She barely noticed them.
Then footsteps entered the carriage corridor.
Measured. Unrushed. Almost… deliberate.
A man stepped through the adjoining compartment. Water clung to the brim of his weathered hat, droplets falling lazily onto the wooden floor as he moved. His coat bore the quiet history of many repairs stitched with mismatched threads, each seam carrying its own small story told through careful mending rather than replacement.
Passengers barely noticed him.
Or perhaps chose not to.
He paused midway down the aisle, glancing across scattered faces with eyes that held an unusual brightness. Not youthful. Not tired. Just… watchful in a way that felt older than memory.
Eventually, he settled beside her.
The seat creaked softly in acceptance.
She kept her attention on the sketchbook, though her pencil had stopped moving.
For a while, rain spoke for both of them.
The traveller removed his gloves slowly, wringing moisture from their fingertips before folding them neatly into his coat pocket. He studied the condensation gathering along the window with quiet fascination, tracing invisible patterns across the fogged glass using only his gaze.
Then he said, gently,
"You draw flowers as if you are trying to remember them."
She blinked slowly and turned her gaze toward him. His voice carried gravel softened by warmth, like a road worn smooth by years of travel.
"I draw what I see," she replied.
A small smile curved his expression.
"Ah… but seeing is rarely as simple as looking."
She lowered her eyes slightly, uncertain how to hold that statement. Compliments always felt slightly misplaced around her, like borrowed clothing that never fit quite right.
The carriage rattled onward.
Silence returned, but it felt different now. Not empty. Just… waiting.
Several seats ahead, an elderly couple began sharing a wrapped loaf of bread between them, breaking pieces with careful equality. The scent drifted faintly through the carriage, mixing with damp air and coal smoke trailing from distant industrial districts.
Passengers exited at scattered stops. The city outside slowly shifted. Markets faded into shuttered storefronts. Lanternlight grew steadier, more deliberate, as if guarding something unseen.
After several minutes, the traveller spoke again.
"Once, I crossed a valley where flowers bloomed only during storms."
Her pencil froze mid stroke.
"Villagers feared them," he continued. "They believed sorrow lived inside their petals."
He tilted his head slightly toward her sketchbook.
"But travellers…" he paused softly,
Travellers know storms teach roots how to listen.
Her chest tightened slightly at the words, though she could not explain why they felt familiar.
She whispered, "Did those flowers survive?"
He chuckled quietly.
"They survived everything," he said.
"Which is often the hardest fate."
The carriage tilted upward along an incline, metal wheels grinding louder against rails. Rain thickened outside, blurring distant architecture into ghostlike silhouettes stacked behind drifting fog.
She studied her drawing again.
"I don't know how to finish it."
The confession slipped out before she could reconsider.
The traveller leaned closer, respectful of her space yet attentive to the charcoal petals.
"Flowers are rarely finished," he said thoughtfully.
"They simply reach moments where they must decide whether to bloom… or remain a promise."
Her finger traced the outline of a petal.
"Which is better?"
His eyes softened with quiet certainty.
"Blooming is beautiful."
He paused briefly.
But promises… remain longer in memory.
The carriage lights flickered as they passed beneath an overhead iron bridge. Shadows stretched across passengers, slicing faces into fragile halves of gold and darkness.
She hugged the sketchbook closer to her chest.
Something about this stranger felt steady. Not safe… not unsafe… simply anchored in a way she had never experienced before.
As if he stood slightly outside the current of time carrying everyone else forward.
Rain softened.
Returned.
Softened again.
A faint crackle echoed through the carriage as the conductor announced approaching districts. The names blurred together into meaningless sounds.
Passengers dwindled further.
A group seated several rows ahead whispered among themselves. Three figures travelled together, their cloaks darker than the rest, their belongings carefully stacked between boots and seat legs. One polished a compass repeatedly despite it already gleaming. Another scribbled notes across folded parchment. The third watched the window with alert stillness, like someone counting distances no map recorded.
They spoke rarely.
Yet they travelled as one.
The girl noticed them only briefly before returning to her sketch.
The traveller reached into his coat and removed a folded scrap of aged parchment. He studied it for a moment, expression unreadable, before tucking it back into his pocket.
"You travel alone," he observed gently.
She nodded.
"Yes."
He did not ask why.
Instead, he watched rain race along the glass.
"Lonely journeys often begin before the traveller realises they have already departed."
She considered the thought carefully.
"I'm not lonely."
The words felt honest… though something inside her hesitated after speaking them.
He smiled, neither agreeing nor correcting.
"Of course."
Outside, rain struck the glass with slightly greater urgency, as though night itself leaned closer to listen to their quiet conversation.
𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸𝙸
The station breathed like something ancient trying to remember youth.
Stone pillars rose toward an arched ceiling where lanterns floated in suspended brass rings, their flames swaying as though whispering secrets to one another. Rain slipped through fractured edges of the roof, falling in slender silver threads that dissolved before reaching the marble floor.
She stepped forward cautiously.
The air here smelled different.
Not fresh.
Not stale.
Just… paused.
Passengers dispersed quickly, vanishing into corridors lined with shadowed archways. Conversations broke apart into fragments that scattered across the vaulted chamber before dissolving entirely.
She remained near the platform edge.
Watching.
Listening.
Feeling something tug gently behind her ribs.
Her fingers rested over her sketchbook through her coat. The paper inside still carried the faint warmth of charcoal dust and lingering thoughts she could not yet untangle.
A bell chimed somewhere deep within the station. Not loud. Not commanding. Merely acknowledging that time had noticed her arrival.
She exhaled slowly.
A thin draft brushed past her ankles, carrying whispers of distant gardens hidden beyond the iron gates ahead. Their metal vines curled inward like they were guarding a memory too fragile to be spoken aloud.
She approached them.
Each step echoed softly beneath her boots, the sound stretching across polished stone as if reluctant to fade.
Behind her, footsteps crossed the platform.
Not hurried.
Not cautious.
Just… steady.
She turned slightly.
The three travellers from the carriage had stepped onto the platform as well.
Up close, their presence felt sharper, like silhouettes carved from purpose rather than chance. Rain had darkened their cloaks into shades nearly indistinguishable from shadow itself.
The one with the compass snapped it shut with quiet precision before sliding it into an inner pocket. His eyes flickered briefly toward the ceiling lanterns as though measuring their sway against something only he understood.
The parchment writer rolled their notes with practiced care, fingers stained faintly with ink that refused to fade even beneath rainwater. Their gaze drifted across the architecture, pausing at symbols etched along the pillars.
The third remained still.
Watching everything.
Not suspiciously.
Not protectively.
Simply… observing with a patience that felt rehearsed.
She lowered her eyes quickly, unsure why their presence made her chest tighten slightly.
Perhaps it was their silence.
Or the way they moved as if each step had already been decided long before it was taken.
She turned back toward the gates.
Their ironwork twisted into patterns of blooming roses, each petal forged with delicate brutality. Rain gathered along their edges before sliding downward like slow tears clinging to thorns.
Her hand hovered near the metal.
Cold radiated from it.
Alive cold.
The kind that hums beneath fingertips with histories no one remembers writing.
She hesitated.
Do gates open because someone pushes… or because something inside finally decides to let go…?
The thought startled her.
It did not feel like her own.
A soft chuckle drifted through memory, carried on rain and carriage lanternlight.
𝓢𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓷 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝔀𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓹 𝓪𝓼𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻.
Her fingers curled slightly.
Then lowered.
She stepped back instead.
The decision felt strangely relieving, like loosening a ribbon tied too tightly around something delicate.
Behind her, murmured voices drifted from the trio.
"Alignment shifted," the compass bearer muttered quietly.
"Not shifted," the parchment writer corrected under their breath. "Delayed."
The observer said nothing, though their gaze followed the girl briefly before returning toward the gates as if memorising their stillness.
Rain thickened again, tapping softly against the iron petals.
She turned away from them, drawn toward a corridor branching along the station's eastern wall. Its entrance curved low, forcing tall travellers to bow their heads slightly upon entering.
She passed beneath it.
The corridor narrowed as it extended forward, lined with mosaic tiles portraying gardens across seasons. Some bloomed with impossible colour. Others displayed petals falling into unseen winds.
Her boots slowed unconsciously as she walked beside them.
One mural showed flowers reaching upward toward a sky painted entirely in shadow.
Another showed roots growing downward into pools of reflected starlight.
She paused before a fractured panel near the corridor's bend. Time had chipped away pieces of its glass surface, leaving a bloom half missing, its stem trailing into emptiness.
She touched the broken edge lightly.
The tile felt warmer than expected.
"Beautiful things rarely survive completeness."
The voice arrived behind her.
She turned quickly.
An elderly station attendant stood near the archway entrance, leaning upon a broom that looked older than the corridor itself. His beard curled unevenly across his collar, silver strands catching lanternlight like threads of frost.
She had not heard him approach.
He nodded toward the damaged mural.
"Visitors often think it tragic," he continued gently. "But unfinished art invites imagination to finish it differently each time it is seen."
She studied the fractured bloom again.
"Does it ever get repaired?" she asked softly.
He smiled, lines folding deeply across his cheeks.
"Repair is a form of forgetting."
The answer lingered between them.
Rain echoed faintly through ceiling vents overhead, its rhythm softened by distance. Somewhere deeper within the station, machinery groaned like old lungs exhaling years they could no longer carry comfortably.
She glanced back toward the platform, though it was no longer visible from here.
"Do many travellers pass through?" she asked.
"Enough to remind the station it still exists," he replied.
He tapped the broom gently against the floor, scattering droplets gathered along its worn bristles.
"Few remember it after leaving."
Her chest tightened again, though she did not understand why.
He tilted his head, studying her expression thoughtfully.
"You carry the look of someone who listens to rain rather than escaping it."
She blinked, caught off guard by the observation.
"I like how it sounds," she admitted.
He chuckled softly.
"Rain rarely speaks the same language twice."
He stepped aside, gesturing down the corridor.
"Gardens wait beyond the eastern exit. Though waiting and welcoming are rarely the same thing."
She nodded in quiet gratitude before continuing forward.
As she walked, the station seemed to fade gradually behind her, its sounds dissolving into distant echoes swallowed by stone and rain.
At the corridor's end, a narrow staircase spiralled upward. Each step bore shallow carvings of leaves pressed into marble like fossilised whispers. Lanterns rested within alcoves along the wall, their flames calmer here, their glow almost contemplative.
Halfway up, she paused.
A faint melody drifted downward from above. Not sung. Not played. Just… humming wind weaving through unseen branches.
It pulled at something inside her memory that refused to fully surface.
She resumed climbing.
At the top, an archway opened onto an elevated walkway overlooking a sprawling courtyard garden partially veiled in mist. Pathways curved through layered terraces where dormant flowerbeds slept beneath rain-polished soil.
Statues lined the outer edges.
Figures carved mid motion. Some reaching skyward. Others kneeling as if listening to roots beneath stone.
The air here felt softer.
Quieter.
Older.
She stepped onto the walkway slowly.
Rain brushed across her shoulders like drifting breath. Lantern posts along the path burned with pale amber light, their reflections stretching across puddled stone like liquid constellations.
Far across the courtyard, silhouettes moved.
Garden keepers perhaps.
Or travellers passing through.
Or something else entirely.
She leaned lightly against the railing, gazing downward.
Her reflection trembled across pooled rainwater collected along the terrace floor. It fractured each time droplets disturbed the surface, reshaping her outline into unfamiliar versions of herself.
She opened her coat and removed the sketchbook.
Carefully.
Reverently.
The charcoal flower waited where she had left it, petals still hesitating between bloom and memory.
Rain tapped softly against the page edges as she held it open.
Her pencil hovered above the drawing.
She inhaled slowly.
Then added a faint shadow beneath one petal.
Not finishing it.
Just… allowing it to exist more fully in its incompletion.
Wind stirred through the garden below, rustling unseen leaves. The melody returned briefly, brushing against her thoughts like a half remembered lullaby sung by someone she had never met.
Behind her, footsteps echoed along the terrace.
Light.
Measured.
She turned slightly.
The trio from the carriage had emerged onto the upper walkway as well. They moved with quiet coordination, scanning pathways, terraces, statues, sky. Their presence folded seamlessly into the garden's stillness, as if they had always been walking here long before she arrived.
The observer's gaze flickered toward her sketchbook for a single heartbeat before drifting away again.
They continued past her without greeting.
Without interruption.
Without acknowledgement.
Yet their silence felt intentional.
As if recognising something without wishing to disturb it.
She watched them disappear into layered mist along the far stairway.
Rain softened again.
She lowered her gaze to the page.
Maybe unfinished things breathe longer because they are still becoming…
The thought settled gently within her chest.
Lanternlight flickered across the charcoal petals, making their shadows appear to tremble as though preparing for motion they had not yet chosen.
Far beyond the courtyard walls, thunder murmured across distant horizons.
Not warning.
Not threatening.
Simply reminding the sky that stories were still unfolding beneath it.
She closed the sketchbook slowly, pressing it against her heart as rain continued to fall around her.
And somewhere along unseen roads beyond the city's sleeping edges…
A traveller walked beneath stormlight skies, his footsteps dissolving before they touched the earth.
𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸𝙸𝙸
Rain lingered longer here.
Not heavier.
Not lighter.
Simply… present.
It drifted through the iron gates like a hesitant guest unsure whether it had truly been invited. Droplets gathered along the curling rosework of the towering entrance, trembling before surrendering to gravity and falling in delicate intervals against stone.
She stood beneath them.
Still watching the carriage disappear into mist until its final lantern dissolved into the distance like a memory forgetting its shape.
Silence followed.
Not empty silence.
Listening silence.
The gates loomed above her, their metal vines twisting into patterns so intricate they seemed almost alive. Between their spiralling stems, faint symbols had been carved into the iron, softened by age and rainfall until they resembled fading fingerprints left by forgotten hands.
She stepped forward slowly.
Her boots met polished cobblestone beyond the threshold, each footfall producing a muted echo that dissolved into drifting fog before it could return.
The scent reached her first.
Not floral.
Not entirely.
It carried something deeper… like soil after thunder… like petals that had never opened… like time folded carefully between leaves.
She tightened her grip around the sketchbook beneath her coat.
Why does this place feel… familiar…?
The thought surfaced gently, like a reflection trembling beneath water.
Ahead, the pathway curved through tall hedges trimmed with almost obsessive precision. Lantern posts rose at measured distances along the road, their glass casings tinted faint amber, casting pools of warm glow that dissolved gradually into mist.
Figures moved quietly along the pathway.
Travellers.
Caretakers.
Messengers perhaps.
None walked hurriedly. Even their urgency seemed softened by the air itself, as though the gardens refused to tolerate chaos.
Some carried sealed parcels wrapped in waxed cloth. Others guided small wheeled carts bearing carefully covered bundles. A woman in layered robes paused beneath a lantern, adjusting the petals of a single white bloom resting within a glass case she carried close to her chest.
Each movement held deliberate gentleness.
As if everything here feared breaking something unseen.
She followed the main path cautiously, senses stretching toward every flicker of motion, every distant murmur swallowed by rainfall.
Behind her, the iron gates sighed closed.
The sound travelled deeper than metal.
It echoed faintly through her ribs before settling into silence.
She did not turn back.
Further along, the path widened into a circular courtyard paved in pale stone veined with silver patterns that glistened faintly beneath the rain. At its centre stood a fountain carved from dark marble. Water spilled from its upper tiers in thin, elegant streams that refused to splash, descending instead in unnaturally smooth ribbons that dissolved sound rather than creating it.
Around the fountain, travellers gathered quietly.
Some rested on curved benches shaped like entwined branches. Others consulted folded maps or murmured in low conversations that never rose above the rainfall's whisper.
She paused at the courtyard's edge.
Observing.
Learning.
A tall archway opened beyond the fountain, leading toward layered terraces ascending gradually into the distance. Through drifting mist, she could glimpse silhouettes of sprawling gardens climbing upward in staggered levels, each separated by delicate bridges and narrow stairways carved directly into stone embankments.
It looked endless.
And yet strangely contained.
A young attendant approached from beside the fountain. Their uniform blended deep green fabrics with subtle silver embroidery shaped like intertwined stems along the sleeves.
Their voice, when they spoke, held professional warmth polished by repetition.
"Arrival registration?"
She blinked, momentarily pulled from the quiet gravity of the courtyard.
"I… I'm not sure."
The attendant tilted their head, expression patient rather than confused.
"First time?"
She nodded.
They gestured gently toward a long colonnade lining the courtyard's western edge. Beneath its shelter, a series of narrow desks had been arranged in orderly sequence, each illuminated by suspended lanterns and guarded by caretakers carefully documenting parchment scrolls.
"You may register there," they said. "Temporary stay, research permit, trade passage, or sanctuary request."
Sanctuary.
The word brushed her thoughts lightly before drifting away again.
"Thank you," she murmured.
The attendant bowed faintly before continuing toward another arriving traveller whose cloak shimmered faintly with droplets shaped like scattered constellations.
She remained standing for a moment longer.
Watching the fountain.
Watching water fall in impossible silence.
Everything here feels like it remembers something…
Her fingers brushed the edge of her sketchbook instinctively.
Movement caught her attention across the courtyard.
The trio.
They had entered through the gates shortly after her, though she had not noticed when. Now they stood beside the fountain's shadowed side, their belongings arranged with the same meticulous precision she had glimpsed earlier.
The one with the compass rotated its polished surface slowly beneath the lanternlight, watching the needle tremble with subtle impatience.
The parchment writer adjusted their notes, occasionally glancing toward the terraces with calculating focus.
The watcher stood slightly apart, gaze scanning the courtyard's architecture as though measuring its proportions against some unseen memory.
They spoke briefly among themselves.
Too quietly to hear.
Yet their stillness carried tension… not fear… but anticipation sharpened by discipline.
The compass bearer paused suddenly, eyes narrowing toward the fountain's base.
Following their gaze, she noticed faint engravings along the marble rim. Symbols similar to those carved into the iron gates spiralled along the stone, though these appeared sharper… less eroded… as if protected carefully from time's erosion.
The watcher touched the compass bearer's sleeve gently.
A silent warning.
Or reminder.
They resumed their composure.
She looked away instinctively, uncertain why she felt she had glimpsed something not meant for casual observation.
The rain softened briefly, drifting into thin silver strands that barely disturbed the fountain's surface.
Somewhere above, distant bells chimed.
Not ceremonial.
Not urgent.
Merely… marking passage.
She moved toward the colonnade slowly, passing beneath carved pillars entwined with ivy that glowed faintly beneath lanternlight, their leaves shimmering as droplets gathered along their edges before slipping downward in patient intervals.
Caretakers worked with quiet efficiency behind the registration desks. Scrolls unfurled. Ink dried beneath careful sand sprinklings. Wax seals pressed into place with precise finality.
When her turn arrived, an elderly registrar looked up from layered documents. Their spectacles rested low along their nose, allowing them to observe arrivals both through glass and directly, as though trusting neither method entirely.
"Name?" they asked gently.
She hesitated.
Not long.
Just enough to notice the pause existed.
She gave it softly.
The registrar wrote it with delicate strokes that resembled calligraphy more than documentation.
"Purpose of arrival?"
"I… draw," she replied, unsure if the explanation made sense even to herself.
The registrar nodded as though the answer carried greater meaning than its simplicity suggested.
"Length of stay?"
She opened her mouth to respond.
Closed it again.
"I don't know."
The registrar smiled faintly, placing a small stamped emblem along the lower edge of her registration slip.
"Few do," they said quietly.
They slid the slip across the desk toward her.
"Temporary access granted. Upper terraces remain restricted until escort clearance. Garden hours remain uninterrupted by weather conditions. Should you hear bells outside designated intervals…" their voice softened slightly, "…follow nearest lantern."
She accepted the slip, fingertips brushing embossed ink that felt warmer than it should have been.
"Thank you."
As she turned away from the colonnade, wind shifted gently through the courtyard, stirring lantern flames into brief elongated flickers.
For a fleeting moment, shadows stretched across the fountain's surface in shapes that resembled tangled branches reaching upward through water before dissolving again into liquid stillness.
She blinked.
The image vanished.
Did I imagine that…?
Rain resumed its steady, patient fall.
She stepped toward the first ascending terrace.
Stone stairs curved upward in elegant arcs, their edges lined with slender railings shaped like climbing stems. Small glass orbs hung from each railing post, glowing faintly from within, casting halos of muted silver light across damp stone.
Halfway up the staircase, she paused instinctively.
Something… shifted.
A presence she could not name brushed against her awareness like distant thunder felt rather than heard.
She turned slightly.
Across the courtyard below, near the shadowed side of the fountain…
The trio stood motionless.
The watcher had turned toward the staircase.
Toward her.
Their gaze held steady, unreadable, though not hostile.
Not welcoming either.
Simply… observing.
Then the compass bearer closed their instrument with quiet finality, and the parchment writer folded their notes with precise care.
They began moving toward a separate terrace entrance concealed beneath cascading ivy along the courtyard's eastern wall.
Their silhouettes vanished into green shadow.
As though they had never stood there at all.
She released a breath she had not realised she had been holding.
Why do they feel like they're walking the same road… just… not beside me…?
The thought settled heavily within her chest.
She resumed climbing.
Above, the first terrace unfolded into layered pathways weaving through low hedges and slender flowering trees whose petals glowed faintly under rain like scattered starlight trapped within translucent silk.
Stone benches curved beneath arching branches. Narrow water channels wound between garden beds, their currents moving so slowly they appeared almost suspended in place.
And further still…
Terraces continued rising into mist.
Each level partially visible… partially concealed… like chapters refusing to reveal their endings too soon.
She stepped onto the terrace pathway carefully.
Rain brushed her shoulders.
Lanternlight shimmered across petals.
Somewhere deeper within the gardens, wind moved through unseen foliage, producing a soft rustling that almost resembled distant whispering layered beneath rainfall.
She hugged the sketchbook closer beneath her coat.
Then slowly… cautiously… she removed it again.
Charcoal dust still lingered along her fingertips as she opened to the unfinished flower.
Droplets from her sleeve touched the paper's edge, bleeding faint grey halos into the sketch's margins.
She stared at the petals.
At their incomplete curves.
At their quiet waiting.
Her breath slowed.
Maybe… unfinished things don't wait to be completed…
The thought rose gently.
Maybe they wait… to be understood…
She lifted her charcoal pencil.
The rain listened.
And far beyond the rising terraces…
Mist shifted subtly between distant hedges.
As though something unseen had turned its attention toward the first stroke she had yet to make.
𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸𝚅
The Quiet That Follows Rain
Rain did not welcome Elira.
It acknowledged her.
The droplets fell with patient rhythm, settling against cobblestone streets polished by centuries of footsteps long forgotten. Lanternlight shimmered through drifting mist, glowing like distant thoughts reluctant to fade.
Elira stood beneath the station archway long after the carriage dissolved into pale silver fog.
Her fingers rested against the folded sketch hidden beneath her coat. The paper still held warmth that should have vanished.
It had not.
The air carried an unfamiliar fragrance. Not sweet. Not bitter. Something layered and restrained, like petals that had learned to bloom in shadow.
She inhaled carefully.
Strange…
The station stretched outward in quiet grandeur. Iron pillars curved toward vaulted ceilings, their metal vines twisting into roses sculpted with unsettling precision. Rainwater traced along their carved veins before slipping silently to the ground.
Beyond the platform gates, the city waited in blurred silhouettes.
Tall structures rose through drifting mist, their windows glowing with steady golden patience. Somewhere distant, bells chimed with dignified restraint, their echoes dissolving into rainfall before completing their song.
Movement stirred behind her.
Passengers stepped onto the platform in scattered clusters, voices softened by damp air and unfamiliar surroundings. Some hurried beneath umbrellas. Others paused to rearrange luggage or whisper directions.
Elira remained still.
The world moved around her as though she existed slightly outside its current.
She unfolded her sketch carefully, shielding it from rain beneath the sheltering arch. The charcoal flower stared back at her, unfinished and waiting.
Her thumb traced one incomplete petal.
Why does it feel closer here…?
Footsteps approached from behind.
Measured. Slow. Almost thoughtful.
She turned instinctively.
An elderly porter stood beside stacked travel trunks, adjusting leather straps with deliberate care. His uniform carried fading embroidery, its threads worn thin from years of unnoticed service. He hummed beneath his breath, the melody uneven yet strangely comforting.
"Elira," he called gently, as if testing whether the name belonged to the evening air.
She blinked.
"Yes?"
He nodded toward the outer gates.
"You will want to move soon. The evening guards close the arches earlier when rain lingers."
His tone carried neither urgency nor command. Only observation.
"Thank you," she replied softly.
His gaze drifted briefly toward her sketch, eyes narrowing with quiet curiosity rather than intrusion.
"Flowers are restless things," he murmured.
Elira tilted her head slightly.
"They bloom where they are planted."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Sometimes," he said.
He returned to arranging luggage before she could continue the conversation, as if he had already spoken everything necessary.
Elira folded the sketch again, pressing it gently against her chest. The paper rustled like fragile wings settling into stillness.
She stepped forward.
The station gates towered above her, iron roses curving inward to form an arch framing the city beyond. Rain slid along their darkened petals, gathering briefly before surrendering to gravity.
As she passed beneath them, wind shifted.
It carried faint music from somewhere within the city streets. Not performance. Not celebration. Simply a distant violin repeating unfinished notes against the quiet evening.
Elira paused at the threshold.
This place feels like it is waiting…
The thought lingered, uninvited yet certain.
Behind her, footsteps echoed across the platform once more. She turned slightly, though she did not know why she expected to see someone standing there.
The carriage rails glistened beneath rain, stretching into fog where distance and memory blurred into indistinction.
For a brief moment, something brushed the edges of her awareness. The echo of a conversation she could not fully recall. Words shaped like wisdom, dissolving before they could form meaning.
Her chest tightened with unexplainable warmth.
Then it faded.
She frowned faintly.
Was someone… speaking with me earlier…?
The question felt incomplete, like reaching for a name written across water.
The station bell rang once, low and resonant, drawing her attention forward again.
Beyond the gates, streets branched outward like veins feeding a sleeping heart. Carriages rolled slowly across polished stone roads. Market lanterns swayed beneath closing awnings where vendors quietly gathered their goods.
Rain softened as she stepped fully into the city, settling into delicate mist that brushed her cheeks like whispered breath.
Several figures crossed the plaza ahead.
Among them, three travellers paused beneath a curved lamppost. Their cloaks absorbed rain in dark folds. One adjusted a compass whose polished surface flashed briefly beneath lanternlight. Another secured parchment scrolls inside a leather satchel. The third observed surrounding architecture with deliberate stillness, eyes tracing invisible routes across unseen maps.
Elira's gaze lingered only briefly before drifting onward.
They were strangers.
Yet something about their stillness felt anchored. Intentional. Like stones placed carefully within a river whose current she had not yet noticed.
She moved past them without speaking.
The plaza opened toward an ascending boulevard lined with narrow garden terraces carved into elevated stone platforms. Even beneath rainfall, faint outlines of cultivated roses grew inside wrought iron enclosures. Their petals appeared almost translucent beneath drifting lanternlight, colors softened into shades difficult to name.
Elira slowed her steps.
They look… fragile.
The fragrance returned stronger here, layered with damp soil and something faintly metallic, like rain striking ancient bronze.
A carriage rattled past behind her, wheels splashing shallow puddles along the curb. The driver tipped his hat briefly, more habit than greeting.
She climbed the boulevard slowly, boots brushing fallen petals scattered across the stone path. Each step released soft whispers beneath her soles as fragile remnants dissolved quietly into rainwater.
Above her, balconies stretched outward from tall residential buildings, their railings decorated with carved floral motifs mirroring the station gates behind her. Candlelight flickered through curtained windows, casting silhouettes of unseen lives continuing without interruption.
The city felt vast.
Not crowded.
Not empty.
Simply… layered.
Elira reached the crest of the boulevard where the road divided into three branching streets, each descending into districts illuminated by differing shades of lantern glow. One burned warm amber. Another shimmered pale ivory. The third glowed faint violet beneath towering glass structures that caught rainfall like drifting constellations.
She hesitated.
Which path is meant for me…?
The question felt heavier than direction alone.
Wind moved through elevated terraces, stirring rose branches into gentle arcs. Droplets fell from petals, scattering across stone in patterns dissolving too quickly to follow.
Somewhere below, distant laughter drifted upward before vanishing into mist.
Elira tightened her grip on the folded sketch. The fragile edges grounded her against unfamiliar surroundings.
She glanced once more toward the hidden station, now swallowed behind layered streets and drifting rain curtains. For an instant, she felt certain someone watched her from that fading distance.
Not with urgency.
Not with concern.
Simply with quiet understanding.
The sensation faded almost immediately.
She exhaled slowly and turned toward the ivory lit street, where lanterns glowed with calm steadiness, their light reflecting softly across rain polished stone.
Her steps carried her forward.
Behind her, wind swept across the boulevard, lifting scattered rose petals into brief spiraling motion before releasing them once more to the earth.
High above the rooftops, clouds shifted with unhurried grace, allowing faint moonlight to seep through thinning rainfall.
And somewhere beyond wandering roads and forgotten stations, a traveller continued walking paths that rarely intersected with memory long enough to remain.
His footsteps left no trace upon the earth.
Yet rain, patient as ever, listened.