BENEATH THE MIRROR

Rain in August was never romantic in the city. It didn’t come as a warm shower to cool the summer air it came like a warning. Cold, hard drops splattered on the pavement, making the neon lights of shop windows blur and smear into one another. The smell of wet asphalt clung to the streets, and puddles formed faster than anyone could step around them. Elena Marlowe stood under the green-striped awning of St. James Bakery, where she’d just finished a long Saturday shift. Her apron was folded neatly in her tote bag, but she still smelled faintly of yeast and cinnamon, and a streak of flour marked the inside of her wrist. She checked the time 6:37 p.m. Maya’s birthday dinner was at seven, across town. She could have begged off. Every part of her body ached for a hot bath and silence. But Maya had insisted over the phone that morning, her voice mock-serious: “Lena, you can knead dough and have a life. One night. That’s all I’m asking.” So here she was, ankle-deep in a puddle, cursing the fact that her umbrella had snapped last week. She pulled her hood tighter around her face and dashed for the bus stop, arriving soaked and slightly breathless. The restaurant was one of those dimly lit, overpriced places that wanted you to think it was casual. The walls were lined with empty wine bottles, the tables mismatched but in an artful way. Elena spotted Maya in the back corner, surrounded by their usual group of friends the kind who laughed loudly, talked over each other, and ordered one too many appetisers. And then she saw him. He wasn’t laughing like the others. He was listening not just the polite kind of listening, but the kind where a person leans in slightly, eyes steady, as if the rest of the world has gone quiet. His hair was dark and neatly styled, his shirt crisp but unpretentious. Something about him made the whole noisy table fade in importance. Maya noticed her and jumped up. “Lena! Finally! Come here, you have to meet Adrian.” The man stood as she approached a small gesture, but one that felt deliberate, old-fashioned. “Adrian Vale,” he said, extending his hand. “You must be the famous Elena I’ve heard entirely too much about.” She shook his hand, startled by its warmth after the chill of the rain. “Famous?” “I have it on good authority that you make the best almond croissants in the city.” His tone was light, but his gaze didn’t waver. She laughed, easing into the banter. “Guilty, but I’m not sure that makes me famous.” “Trust me,” he said, “when something’s worth remembering, it becomes famous in the right circles.” She slid into the seat beside Maya, but it was Adrian she found herself glancing at. His attention wasn’t overbearing, but when she spoke, he didn’t let it drift. He asked her questions no one usually did: * “What’s the first thing you ever baked?” * “If you could live anywhere else, where would it be?” * “What’s your least favourite part of the city?” When others jumped in to change the topic, he waited for her to finish before adding his thoughts. It was… disarming. By the time dessert arrived, a cake Maya pretended not to know about. The rain outside had picked up again, hammering against the restaurant’s windows. Maya was tipsy and glowing, and everyone was singing too loud. Elena joined in, even though she didn’t usually like the spotlight. When they splattered out onto the wet sidewalk, Maya waved her arms like she was conducting an orchestra. “Best night ever!” she shouted, before diving into a waiting cab. Elena lingered under the awning, weighing her options: the long walk to the bus stop in the rain, or waiting it out and freezing. “That’s the north end, right?” She turned. Adrian was standing a few feet away, coat folded over one arm. “Yes,” she said cautiously. “That’s on my way. Let me walk you.” Her first instinct was to politely decline you didn’t just let a near-stranger walk you home in the dark but something about the quiet assurance in his voice made refusal feel unnecessary. She nodded, and he draped his coat so it shielded her left shoulder from the rain. They walked in easy silence at first, the sound of raindrops filling the gaps. When they spoke, it was about small things the strange hours of bakery work, his job in property development, their mutual dislike of pigeons. As they neared her street, she noticed his pace slowed, as though he wasn’t in a hurry for the night to end. “You know,” he said, glancing at her, “most people would have stayed home on a night like this.” “I almost did.” She smiled. “But Maya doesn’t take no for an answer.” “I’m glad she doesn’t.” They stopped in front of her building, the rain dripping steadily from the edge of the awning. Her hair was curling from the damp, her flats squelching with every step. She realised reluctantly that she didn’t want this walk to be over. He studied her face for a moment, as if committing it to memory. “I’ll see you again,” he said. And then, with the faintest smile, “Soon.” Before she could ask what he meant, he was already walking away, his dark silhouette disappearing into the wet glow of the streetlights. The next morning, the bell above the bakery door jingled just as Elena was arranging the first tray of croissants. She looked up but there was no one there. On the counter sat a small brown paper bag, folded neatly at the top, with a note tucked inside. In clean, slanted handwriting, it read: The famous Elena almond croissants deserve to be reciprocated.