Paris, late afternoon.
The sky hung low, like a secret about to fall.
In the corner of Rue Saint-Honoré, the light from a small café spilled onto the wet street.
And inside that café—Edelweiss Café—sat Arias, her fingertips resting on a cold porcelain cup, staring through the glass as if the whole city had drifted away.

A sketchbook lay open before her.
The page was nearly blank, except for the faint outline of a man's silhouette—drawn with hesitation, as though she feared finishing it would mean admitting something to herself.
Arias pressed her pencil harder, then stopped. She smiled wryly.

"Still can't get it right, huh?"
The voice came from behind her. Warm, familiar, teasing.

She turned. Henry stood there, his hair damp from the drizzle, his brown coat dotted with tiny drops of rain. In his hand, a bouquet of lavender—slightly wilted, but fragrant.

He sat down opposite her, setting the bouquet between them.
"You always draw the same place," he said. "Same table, same rain, same window. But the person opposite you is still missing."

Arias looked up.
"And what if I like it that way?"

Henry chuckled softly. "Then you'll never know what color the rain turns when it falls between two people."

For a moment, the world seemed to still.
Only the sound of the rain tapping against the window filled the space between them.

Henry had met Arias a year ago, during a workshop at Atelier Bleu.
She was quiet, with eyes that always seemed to be looking somewhere far beyond the room. He was the opposite—talkative, full of life, painting like he was racing against time.
They were never supposed to become close. Yet, like two brushstrokes that accidentally met on canvas, they blended in ways neither expected.

Now, sitting together again in that same café, they said little.
It wasn't silence that separated them—it was a thousand words that never needed to be spoken.

Outside, the rain grew heavier.
Henry reached for his sketchbook and began to draw. Arias watched him, fascinated. His hands moved with effortless rhythm, lines flowing like a melody.
In less than a minute, a portrait of her appeared—soft, calm, eyes lowered, lost in thought.

She bit her lip. "You make me look sad."
"You always do, when you think no one's watching," he said gently.

Arias looked down at her cup. Steam still rose, curling like a fragile memory.
"Henry," she whispered, "have you ever felt like love is just... something that comes with the rain—beautiful, but fleeting?"

He didn't answer at once. He looked outside, where raindrops traced paths down the glass, and his reflection blurred into hers.
Then he said quietly,
"Maybe. But even fleeting things can be real while they last."

Arias smiled faintly. "You talk like a poet."
"And you draw like one," he replied.

The clock struck five.
The rain began to lighten, fading into a gentle mist.
Henry stood up, slipping his sketchbook into his coat pocket.

"I'm leaving for London next week," he said. "There's an exhibition I can't miss."

Arias froze. "For how long?"
He hesitated. "I don't know."

Silence again.
But this time, it felt heavier, like the air before a storm.

Finally, Henry pushed the bouquet toward her.
"For you. So that Paris won't feel too gray."

She took it. The lavender's scent rose softly between them—sweet, almost melancholic.
When she looked up again, Henry was already walking toward the door.

Outside, the light had dimmed.
Through the window, Arias watched his figure disappear into the misty street, swallowed by the rain.

She opened her sketchbook once more.
On the blank page, she drew a thin line—his silhouette fading into the distance.

Then she wrote beneath it, in small, deliberate letters:

"Some people arrive like the rain—quietly, beautifully—and when they leave, the sky never feels the same."