Echoes in the Rain

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Chapter 2: Echoes in the Rain

The next Tuesday, the rain came earlier.

It started in the late afternoon—light at first, then heavier, turning the city into a watercolor painting of smeared lights and reflections. Zayne stood beneath the garage’s awning, arms crossed, staring at the sky as thunder growled in the distance.

“Storm’s worse than last week,” his co-worker Eli said, tossing Zayne a towel to dry his hands. “You taking the bus again?”

Zayne nodded.

Eli hesitated, eyes narrowing. “You always take the long route on Tuesdays. What’s out there?”

Zayne shrugged. “Just... quiet.”

Eli didn’t press. He never did. But the look lingered.

By 9:07 p.m., Zayne was sitting in the same seat, hood up, condensation fogging the bus windows. He hadn’t meant to get obsessed. It had started with simple curiosity. But now? Now, he didn’t know. There was something about her that tugged at the frayed edges of his memory. Like she reminded him of someone. Or somewhere. Or something he once promised and forgot.

As the bus neared Stop 27, his heart kicked up, uninvited.

There she was.

Same red umbrella. Same black coat. But this time—her notebook was gone. And she was looking at the bus before it even slowed.

Their eyes met again.

Only this time, she smiled.

It was small. Barely there. But Zayne felt it like a warm ripple beneath his skin, like an echo of a song he hadn’t heard in years.

The bus doors opened with a hiss. For a moment, he thought—maybe tonight’s the night. Maybe she’ll step on.

She didn’t.

But just before the doors closed, she lifted her hand and tapped two fingers against her umbrella. Then pointed at him.

Zayne blinked. The doors shut.

“What was that?” he muttered aloud.

When he reached his stop, the rain was pouring harder. He walked home without his umbrella, barely noticing the cold. That night, he couldn’t sleep. The image of her stayed with him: standing in the rain, not sad, not waiting—but watching. And that gesture. Two fingers. A point. A silent message?

He pulled out his sketchpad. He hadn’t drawn in months—years, really. But his fingers moved before he could stop them. The outline of a girl, a red umbrella, shadows of rain, and city lights behind her. She looked like she belonged to another world.

The next morning, Zayne dug through an old drawer looking for something—anything—that might explain the strange sense of familiarity.

In a shoebox beneath his bed, he found it.

An old photograph.

Two kids, around eleven, sitting on a bus bench under a single red umbrella. The girl had a bandage on her knee and a black notebook in her lap. Zayne’s younger self was beside her, holding a juice box and grinning like he didn’t know the world could hurt yet.

The girl had her head tilted toward him, smiling.

Zayne sat down, hard.

He remembered her.

Barely. But it was enough. The girl from that summer camp trip. The one who disappeared after the storm. Mira.

Her name was Mira.

And now she was standing at the same bus stop, ten years later. Same umbrella. Same calm smile. Same rain.

Why hadn’t he recognized her before?

Maybe because people change. Or maybe... because she hadn’t.

Zayne stared at the photo, heart pounding.

Why was she back now? And why did it feel like she had never left?

The rain tapped against the window like a ticking clock.

Something was coming. He could feel it.