LILA'S POV
That night... the rain returned.
It didn't start with a dramatic crash of thunder or a sudden, violent downpour. Instead, it began as a heavy, mournful mist that gradually thickened, slicking the old mango tree and sending steady, rhythmic drops drumming against the tin roof of the front porch. The air carried the sharp, damp scent of bruised earth and wet concrete.
Ryker and I sat side-by-side on the weathered wooden bench of the porch, watching the dark sheets of water obscure the front gate.
Between us sat two ceramic mugs of chamomile tea, the steam curling lazily into the chilly night air before thinning out into nothing. Neither of us touched them. We simply watched the liquid grow cold, the dark surfaces mirroring the dim porch light above us.
The silence between us
