The rain didn’t stop for two days.
It tapped against the glass like it had something to say—soft, persistent, always there. The kind of rain that made the world feel suspended, like time itself had curled up and gone still.
Aria didn’t leave her room much during the downpour. Luciano had offered her freedom in his own way—a twisted version of it—but she needed space. Not physical space. Just distance from the way his eyes lingered. From the weight of being wanted by someone like him.
She found herself pacing. Writing. Reading old journals she had packed away in her memory and tried to forget.
One evening, she opened the small drawer of the writing desk and found a pen. Just a pen. But it reminded her of her old life. Of filling notebook margins with poetry and trying to stitch herself
