UNDER GRAYBRIDGE RAIN

CHAPTER 2: UNDER THE SAME RAIN, Part I

Graybridge, May 3rd, 2017 — Early Evening

“Not yet,” Noah said, the words barely audible under the rhythm of the rain.

“Not yet?” The man repeated.

He tilted his umbrella slightly and partly away from Noah as action of his disbelief and curiosity, studying him for a heartbeat. Streetlight filtered through the drizzle. Then, he softened the edges of his face, giving his expression faint gold warmth. “Then, where to?”

“I want to visit an old diner here for dinner.”

The stranger’s lips curved, a quiet smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Noah met it before he could stop himself. “You could join me,” he said, trying to sound casual, though the invitation felt heavier than the rain around them.

“I could use some help trying to remember where things used to be,” he added, anxiously waiting for his response.

The man’s lips curved again, yet this time, not quite a smile. “You’ll find Graybridge remembers too much.”

Noah didn’t know what to say next. The weight of the words lingered between them, as if the town itself had overheard and agreed. For a moment, all he could hear was the soft rhythm of the rain, the faint hiss where it met the pavement, and the echo of his own breathing.

After a quiet pause, the kind stranger turned to him. “Then maybe we can remember together,” he said gently. “I’d love the dinner. Where would you want to have it?”

“Well, the last time I was here, I had this amazing meal at the Gray Griddle. I used to think about it sometimes,” He let out a small laugh. “I wonder if it’s still around.”

“It is,” the man said after a beat. “Didn’t go there much, though. I usually passed by and just watched the lights inside. Always looked... warm.”

There was a pause after, then the man offered, “Let’s go.”

They began walking, shoulders brushing close enough that the umbrella’s small circle of shelter forced them to lean toward each other. The drizzle stitched fine lines of mist across their coats. Every step splashed lightly against the uneven cobblestones, and every sound—the whisper of rain, the hum of distant traffic—seemed quieter under the weight of the early evening.

They walked straight ahead from the library’s wooden door, neither speaking nor turning. The rain had softened to a mist, clinging to their clothes and hair. Out of the corner of his eye, Noah studied the man beside him. He was calm, almost expressionless, his gaze reflecting the lamplight like wet glass. There was something hauntingly familiar about him, as though they’d met not just recently at the bus stop or the library, but somewhere deeper in Noah’s memory, blurred by time. Before they reached the first right corner and wanting to continue the conversation that the man started earlier, Noah broke the silence, his voice quiet but careful.

“You live around here?”

“Mm,” the stranger nodded, gaze ahead. “Close enough to walk to the library when it rains. Which is… every day.”

“So, you work there?”

“Librarian. Sort of,” The man looked at him, meeting his eyes fully for the first time. Nonetheless, it was fleeting. His voice softened on the last word, as though it carried more weight than he wanted to admit. “And you? What brings you back?”

Noah looked down at the puddles scattering the light. “Family. Or what’s left of it.”

The stranger didn’t press, though Noah could sense the quiet question forming behind that silence. Instead, he adjusted the umbrella again, making sure it still covered Noah more than himself. Noah noticed this gesture of his.

They walked past the edge of the Old District—small storefronts shuttered for the night, some of the old lampposts flickering like tired sentinels. The air smelled faintly of wet cedar and sea salt. The two fell into silence; both didn’t know what to say next.

After a few minutes of shared silence, Noah spoke again. He was beginning to realize he’d have to be the one to fill the quiet between them. The man beside him seemed perfectly content to let the rain do the talking. He remembered the words said earlier, the ones that had lingered with him ever since. “You said Graybridge remembers too much,” he began, glancing up at him. “What did you mean by that?”

The stranger slowed his pace. His steps softened, like he was walking through a familiar dream. He didn’t look at Noah when he answered, but there was a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, one that felt almost like gratitude for being asked.

“Some places don’t forget what happened,” he said quietly. “Even when people do. Sometimes it’s in the walls… or the air after it rains.”

The words hung between them, weighted but gentle. Noah wanted to ask more—what happened here, what did you lose?—but something in his expression after he answered told Noah to let it rest. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time; it felt like understanding, or something close to it.

When they finally turned left, a soft orange glow cut through the mist ahead. The Gray Griddle stood near the corner—not new, but not tired either. The paint on its sign was slightly faded, and one of the neon letters flickered unsteadily, yet the windows glowed with a warmth that reached the street. The smell of coffee and butter drifted out through the small vent above the door, curling through the rain.

As they neared the entrance, Noah remembered the last time he was here. The memory gave him both happiness and sadness. He smiled faintly and said, “Looks like it hasn’t changed much. Even that sign still blinks the same way.”

His company glanced at it, amused. “Maybe it remembers you, too.”

That made Noah laugh under his breath. “If it does, I hope it forgave me for eating all their pancakes back then.”

The stranger tilted his head, an almost-smile returning. “You can ask it yourself.”

He stepped forward first, reaching for the door handle. The bell above the door gave a soft, familiar ring as he pushed it open, and a wave of warmth met them—the scent of coffee, faint music from an old jukebox, the quiet chatter of a few diners.

The windows fogged with condensation, and the lights had that soft yellow hum that made everything look slower, gentler. Booths lined the walls, their leather cracked in places but clean, and behind the counter an older woman in an apron looked up with a smile.

Noah hesitated a moment by the door, water still clinging to his coat, before stepping inside fully. “Feels smaller than I remember,” he said, glancing around. It was the first thing he did as he kind of missed the place.

The kind stranger shook the umbrella gently by the door before folding it. “Places usually do,” he murmured. “Or maybe we just got bigger.”

Noah looked at him, a small smile playing on his lips—not from amusement, but from recognition of how true that sounded.

They settled into a booth by the window, the kind with worn red cushions that sighed softly when they sat. Outside, rain slid down the glass in silver threads, as it usually did, bending the light of passing cars into blurred streaks. The hum of the diner wrapped around them—murmured voices, the clink of cutlery, the low crackle of the jukebox playing something old and slow.

A waitress came over with a tired but practiced smile, a pencil tucked behind her ear and the apron wrapping around her waist suggested that it was already a long day for her. “Evening, gentlemen. What can I get you tonight?”

Noah scanned the menu, the laminated edges sticky with age. “It’s been twenty years since I’ve had dinner here,” he said, almost to himself. He continued looking down on the menus, probably tying to see what had changed on their menu, adding, “I used to love their beef stew… and mashed potatoes.”

The waitress grinned, scribbling quickly. “Still on the menu. Still the same recipe, too.”

“I’ll take that then,” Noah said, smiling after he looked up to her. “And maybe a cup of tea. Something to warm up.”

The man glanced up just enough to hand his menu back. “Same for me,” he said quietly. His voice had a steady calm to it—measured, certain—but Noah thought he heard a trace of warmth beneath it, as if he’d chosen the same order just to make the moment less divided.

When the waitress left, Noah leaned back against the booth, his thumb absently tracing the chipped edge of the table. Across from him, the man was carefully arranging his damp coat beside him, movements deliberate, precise. They heard the clatter of dishes and the low hum of the grill from the kitchen. The smell of something cooking hung in the air, warm and nostalgic.

Noah’s gaze drifted to him again before he could stop himself. The stranger’s eyes lifted at the same moment, catching his, and for a heartbeat Noah froze, caught between embarrassment and a strange pull he didn’t quite understand. He tried to look away, but the effort came too late.

So he spoke—too quickly, too suddenly—to hide it. “So,” he said, feigning curiosity more than confidence, “that was you earlier. I wasn’t sure if I was imagining things.”

“You weren’t exactly subtle about watching.” The man gave a small, sidelong glance.

“Yeah, not my strongest skill, I guess.” Noah chuckled under his breath, embarrassed, but amused.

That earned him the faintest smile—small but visible. Then, he murmured his next words, “You’re worse at pretending than you think,”

Before Noah could reply, their food arrived—steam rising in soft curls from the plates, carrying the scent of slow-cooked beef, butter, and rosemary. The warmth hit them immediately, fogging the cool edge of the window beside their booth.

The man whispered a “thank you” to the waitress, then reached for his fork, the motion calm and unhurried. Noah watched him for a moment before focusing on his own plate, cutting into the tender meat. The first bite melted easily; it tasted exactly like he remembered, like the town hadn’t changed, no matter how much he had.

They ate in silence at first, the clink of cutlery filling the space between them, weaving with the muffled patter of rain on glass. The lights overhead hummed softly, steady and low, and the smell of brewed coffee drifted faintly from behind the counter. Who’s having coffee at this hour?

A few minutes passed. Noah glanced up just as his company set his fork down mid-bite, pausing as if a thought had nudged him forward. Noah’s company then asked, voice even, though his eyes carried the quiet weight of genuine curiosity. “You’ll be staying long?”

“Long enough,” Noah blinked. The warmth in his tone wasn’t only from the food.

“Then you’ll need better shoes,” nodding toward Noah’s boots.

“Guess I forgot how stubborn this rain is.” Noah laughed softly, freely. It was the first sound between them that didn’t feel careful.

The man took another sip of his water, his gaze dipping toward the window where the drizzle streaked the glass in silver lines.

“It doesn’t forget you either,” he replied.

Noah stilled, his fork resting on the edge of his plate. There was something in that voice—quiet, almost reflective—that made him look up again. Their eyes met across the table, and for a long second, neither looked away.

Outside, the rain blurred the reflections of streetlights into soft gold smears. Inside, the diner hummed gently, a warmth shared by strangers who, for a night, didn’t feel like strangers at all.

And somewhere in the hush between them, Noah thought, without meaning to, that Graybridge might be remembering this too.