UNDER GRAYBRIDGE RAIN

Graybridge, May 3rd, 2017 The bus hissed to a stop under the low, gray sky, its brakes wet and slippery against the rain-slicked asphalt. Noah tightened his grip on the leather strap of his bag and stepped down, boots squeaking against the metal plate of the door. The drizzle was heavier than he remembered, a persistent mist that seemed to soak through everything: coat, hair, and memory alike. He took a deep sigh and his eyes wandered around the soon his feet reached the pavement. Graybridge had not changed, he thought grimly, though twenty years had passed since he last walked these streets as a boy. The air still smelled of salt, pine, and something faintly metallic from the river nearby. He immediately shoved his bag over his head, trying in vain to keep it dry, but the rain seeped through the leather, soaking his coats—especially on his shoulders. He muttered under his breath, kicking at a puddle in frustration. Perhaps, due to the fact that he had forgotten to bring an umbrella with him. The city had spoiled him with umbrellas, with dry, fast streets, with cars that didn’t care about the drizzle—but Graybridge was different. Here, the rain lingered, curling into every alley and seeping into memories better left forgotten. The sound of the rain on his leather bag disappeared. A shadow appeared beside him, silent yet deliberate, and Noah’s eyes flicked upward. A young man, mid-twenties, tall and lean, held a black umbrella, angled perfectly just so to cover them both. What after seemed to be a minute, the man holding the umbrella talked. “You’re going to get drenched trying to hide under that. Here, stay under this while we walk.” His voice was calm, almost teasing. Noah froze, blinking. “Oh… thanks,” he murmured, fumbling with his bag. He rested both of his hands on his sides, taking another quick look on the man shyly. The stranger fell into step beside him, bringing them closer than before, umbrella tilting just enough to shelter both of them from the drizzle. “Where are you headed?” “To… the apartment building. Rainmere Flats,” Noah answered, adjusting his soaked coat. “Good. I’ll walk you up from here. Don’t want you looking like a drowned cat on your first day,” the man said, his tone was light but careful, keeping a distance that felt polite yet intimate. They moved through the soft gray haze of Graybridge’s streets. Mist clung to the trees lining the sidewalks, and the occasional gull cried faintly from the nearby river. Every puddle mirrored the low-hanging clouds above and their reflections as they passed through it. Noah felt the strange weight of the town pressing in — familiar, suffocating, alive with memory — yet also noticed the quiet steadiness of the man beside him. He didn’t know why, but there was something reassuring in that presence, something both familiar and entirely foreign, giving the reason why he kept glancing on the person beside him every chance he got. He wanted to start a conversation because the silence between them was uncomfortable for him, despite the sound of the rain around. Maybe asked the man what had changed around town for the past 20 years, Nevertheless, before Noah could talk, they reached the front of Rainmere Flats. The apartment stood in quiet endurance, its brick and concrete walls steeped in the scent of rain, rust, and tired plumbing. Along the narrow halls, the lights flickered with a soft, electrical hum, casting brief pulses over water-stained ceilings. It wasn’t derelict—just old enough to feel lived-in, the kind of place that had watched lives drift in and out, unnoticed but not unloved. The man slowed to a stop, and Noah instinctively did the same. He glanced at him again. The kind stranger was adjusting his gray rain jacket with careful hands. Something stirred in Noah then, a faint pull of recognition he couldn’t place, as if he’d seen this man before, somewhere blurred by time. Wanting to hold on to the feeling, or perhaps to understand it, he spoke, voice tentative yet warm. “Thanks,” he said. “Would you like to come in? Maybe for a cup of coffee… or hot chocolate?” “I’m needed somewhere,” he said, shrugging lightly as if that explained everything. There was no hint of where he was going, no invitation to linger. Only a small acknowledgment of the shared moment in the rain. Noah hesitated. He wanted to ask more, to reach for a name, a story, anything that could make him remember him wholly. But the man gave a small nod, adjusted his umbrella, and walked away into the haze, leaving Noah with the faint echo of gray-green eyes in his mind. He lingered for a moment, wanting to look back, the umbrella awkward in his hand, feeling both curiosity and the first tug of something unnamable. Noah turned and stepped into Rainmere Flats. The lobby carried a faint scent of damp concrete and old pipes, though it looked better than it smelled. Four people sat scattered across the couches — two absorbed in their magazines, a man tapping at his phone, and a small child beside him who Noah guessed was his. The fluorescent lights gave a single, low flicker, humming softly in the pause that followed a distant clap of thunder. He approached the front desk. Behind it, a woman lifted her sharp yet kind gaze. Her floral dress swayed as she stood, smoothing its hem with a practiced motion. There was warmth in her smile, quiet but genuine, and Noah felt it reach him even before she spoke. “Welcome to Rainmere Flats,” she said. She didn’t waist a second, continuing, giving him a good smile at the end, “You must be Mr Noah Theron Mendez. Unit on the second floor, Number 15, corner. Good view of the river… and the bridge.” Noah’s eyes widened for a moment, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected her to recognize him so quickly. Recovering from his surprise, he managed a small, awkward smile. “Thanks,” he said. “You’ll notice it rains… a lot.” There was a somewhat wicked laugh on that, yet Noah knew she was being honest. “So, best advice? Always carry an umbrella. Graybridge doesn’t forgive forgetfulness.” Noah remembered the kind stranger with an umbrella. He smiled weakly, nodding. “Noted.” Then, he climbed the staircase slowly, letting the rhythm of his own footsteps settle the nerves coiling in his chest. The room was simple and open, neither small nor large. It was just enough space to breathe. A clean, well-kept bed stood near the wall, its white sheets smooth and folded with care. Beside it, a modest table and chair sat by the window, the rest of the room unadorned, carrying the stillness of a place waiting to be lived in. Noah stepped closer to the window. Beyond the glass, the river stretched in the distance, a gray steel bridge cutting across the slow-moving water. Rain slid down the pane in thin, steady trails, each drop landing with the quiet persistence of memory he did not want to remember. He lingered there for a while, letting the sound of the rain fill the silence. He slid to sit on the edge of the bed, dropping his bags. Twenty years had passed since he last walked these streets, yet the grief of his parents’ death felt as raw as ever. He was just four years old when it happened, leaving him with only fragmented memories and unanswered questions. He had grown up in the city with her aunt until college, offering him a life of study and work, but he had never escaped Graybridge in his heart. Now he was back, older, ready to dig into something that had haunted him for decades. On the next hour or two, he spent the time unpacking the contents of his leather hand bag. These were the things he handled with more care. From a side pocket, he drew out a worn envelope, edges softened by years of travel. Inside were papers he’d kept folded and refolded too many times: old documents, some stamped and signed, others smudged from damp fingers. He arranged them by date across the table, scanning names and brief lines that once meant something official but now only carried a quiet ache. There were reports, maybe, or statements, he didn’t look too closely. One corner bore the faded emblem of a department he no longer wished to go back to but had to. He paused at a particular page, where the ink had run from what might have been rain or tears, then set it aside with the others. Next came the photographs. Noah spread them out beneath the low light, their edges curling from age. Some showed places he half-recognized like a familiar house on the Woodbury Rd. Others captured moments he could never forget, even if he tried: faces turned away, outlines caught in flashlight glare, the grainy stillness of something that once mattered too much. As the rain outside kept its steady rhythm, without changing his inside clothing that were damped, Noah, although, against his will to remember everything, he didn’t wasted a second to re-read all the old news and statements on the table and re-examine the photographs he had. By late-afternoon, going night fall, the drizzle had softened into a steady mist. Noah grabbed his coat, took a few of the papers he laid out on his desk and put it on his leather bag, then stepped out again. The air still had that cold touch against his cheeks. Despite his life was spent more on the city, he knew where the landmarks of this town were, or at least the important or historic buildings. This time, he headed toward the Old District and the municipal library. The streets were slick, and the orange glows of streetlamps were starting to shimmer against wet cobblestones. Every corner he passed through seemed to whisper stories of the past — tales of friends, neighbors, and secrets buried in damp brick walls. He reached the library, its old wooden doors heavy with years of varnish. Pushing one open, the scent of dust and faint mildew greeted him, and the soft echo of his boots sounded against the polished wood floor. He ignored the lady in front, who was humming, getting the impression that, like the woman on the Rainmere Flats lobby, this woman already knew his name, which he hated. He pressed on with his matter on the library. Hardly anybody read these days because the library almost seemed empty aside from pile of books after pile of books. The main room was quiet, sunlight muted through tall, arched windows streaked with rain. Tall wooden shelves rose like silent sentinels, filled with books and forgotten record no one might ever get interested to. As he moved deeper into the stacks, not long after he came inside, he noticed a man in his mid-20s moving quietly between the aisles, too. What he considered odd at first on his behavior was that the man was not looking for books, rather we was arranging them. There was a stillness to him, deliberate and calm, as he reached for a book to organize and adjusted his posture under the dim light. Pale skin caught in a shaft of soft afternoon light, hair falling just enough over his forehead to shadow sharp features. He didn’t speak, didn’t glance up—but there was a presence, quiet yet impossible to ignore. It was the same stranger with an umbrella from before. ‘Did he saw me, too?’ the questioned circled his head. Noah walked away from the shelves of books and sat on one of those long rectangular tables–one that he can clearly see the kind stranger. He focused on his papers like it was the first time reading them, pretending not to notice the man, who kept on flipping books through the shelves. He kept his gaze low, feigning interest in the papers before him, though his attention kept drifting to the figure on the bookshelves, torn between returning for what he wanted and breaking the silence that stood between them–or, at least, to him. Minutes, or more like an hour, slipped by, unremarkable except for the brief moment when the man approached the humming woman at the front desk. They exchanged a few quiet words before he disappeared through one of the doors leading to the library’s back rooms. Noah stayed where he was, his fingers idly tracing the edge of a page he wasn’t reading. He wanted to stand, to speak — but the courage never came. Regret settled in its place instead, small and persistent. He waited another ten minutes, hoping the man might reappear, but the door stayed closed. Eventually, he told himself it didn’t matter — there would be other days, and besides, he hadn’t come here for that. With a quiet exhale, he gathered his things and decided to get dinner at one of the old diners in Graybridge, the kind that still remembered him even if the years had not. When he finally stepped outside, the rain had thickened again. He pulled his coat tighter, muttering under his breath about forgetting Graybridge’s relentless weather, standing in front of the library’s wooden door. “No umbrella again, huh?” A voice came behind his back. It was low, steady, touched with either amusement. Noah turned, half-startled, half-caught. The very same man on the bus stop and in the library stood a few steps away, his own umbrella tilted slightly to the side, rainwater slipping down its edge in silver lines. He wasn’t smiling exactly, but something in his eyes softened the words, the kind of gentleness that made the drizzle seem less cold. “I—guess I wasn’t planning to stay out this long,” Noah said, brushing the damp from his hair, feeling somewhat relieved that he had another chance to talk to him. The man only nodded, shifting his umbrella until the space it reached Noah. “You’ll catch a cold like that,” he said, voice quiet but certain, as if he’d said it before—not just to anyone, but to him. Noah hesitated. The rain pressed around them, steady and close. Then the man took a small step nearer, enough for their shoulders to share the same shade of gray light beneath the umbrella. He had to step closer like before; the umbrella was smaller than he thought, or maybe because two broad-shouldered men simply couldn’t fit beneath one without brushing close. Either way, if they didn’t lean closer, the rain would find them. “Come on,” he said. “At least until you get home.” “Thanks, but I’m not going back to Rainmere,” Noah replied. “Not yet.”