The sunlight that followed the rain didn’t last long.
By late afternoon, the sky had returned to its dull gray color, matching the uneasy calm that had settled between Atticus and Sheila. After spending hours at the park, talking in slow, careful words, he had insisted on walking her home. She had refused at first, stubborn as always, but eventually gave in when he simply kept walking beside her without arguing.
Now they stood outside her apartment building again.
Neither of them wanted to say goodbye.
Sheila adjusted the sleeve of her sweater nervously, her eyes avoiding his. The fragile peace between them felt like thin ice one wrong step and everything might crack again.
“You’re quiet,” Atticus said gently.
She shrugged. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
She hesitated, then sighed softl
