UNDER GRAYBRIDGE RAIN

CHAPTER 3: UNDER THE SAME RAIN, Part II

Graybridge, May 3rd, 2017 — Deep Evening

The bell above the door jingled softly as they stepped out of the Gray Griddle. The rain had returned, finer now, like a veil of mist that blurred the edges of the street. The air smelled faintly of wet stone and cooling coffee, the kind that drifted out from the diner’s vent. Noah tugged at his coat collar, shivering lightly at the sudden change of warmth to chill. His bags still on his hand.

Beside him, the kind stranger raised the umbrella again, tilting it slightly over Noah’s head before asking, “Where to next?”

“Rainmere Flats,” Noah said after a short pause. “That’s where I’m staying.”

The man nodded once, as if the name wasn’t new to him. “Then we’re headed in the same direction.”

The thought drew a small smile from Noah. “Coincidence?”

“Or Graybridge doing what it does best,” the man replied softly, looking at him then to the mist around. “Pulling the same threads together.”

They began walking. The night had deepened, and the streets shimmered under the streetlights—puddles catching yellow reflections, telephone wires dripping faintly overhead. The air hummed with quiet: distant tires cutting through shallow water, a dog barking somewhere in the alleys, the constant, breathing rhythm of the rain, as always.

The umbrella’s narrow circle forced them close. Occasionally, their shoulders brushed, like before. Noah’s company angled it instinctively to cover Noah more, so his own sleeve darkened with rain.

Noah noticed this and tried to ignored it. Eventually, he said, “You’ll get soaked if you keep doing that.”

The man shrugged lightly. “I’m used to it. This town never forgets to rain.”

“Yeah, some things never change.” That made Noah laugh under his breath.

They passed the edge of the Old District again, though the view was different from before. The fog from the harbor had begun creeping into the streets, curling around the lampposts, dimming their glow. It gave the town a kind of dreamlike haze, as though Graybridge was holding its breath.

Noah slowed near a familiar corner—or what used to be one. The building there was dark, boarded up, its front window cracked in the middle like a frozen sigh. As they paced, he tried to examine it, despite the rain and mist which blurred his vision. Fully certain of the memory he remembered, he said quietly. “This used to be a bakery. My mom used to take me here. Every Sunday morning before church. She’d get her bread, I’d get… well, usually whatever pastry she said we couldn’t afford that week.”

The kind stranger followed his gaze. The faded lettering on the sign was barely legible beneath the grime. Maren’s Bakehouse.

“Doesn’t look like it’s been open in years,” the man murmured, also wandering his eyes around.

“Most things here don’t stay open long anymore.” Noah nodded. He smiled faintly, though it wasn’t from joy. “I used to think the smell of that place was what mornings should always smell like.”

“What did it smell like?” he asked.

The question left Noah bewildered, yet he shrugged it off. “Warm sugar. And cinnamon. The kind that sticks to your clothes. Sometimes when it rained, it mixed with the scent of wet pavement and made the whole street smell like… home.”

The rain thickened slightly, brushing against the umbrella in soft percussion. The stranger looked at him then—really looked—but said nothing. He heard how Noah said home and felt that sadness, one he could relate to. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was something else.

They kept walking.

The town around them seemed older in the dark. Window shutters clattered lightly against the wind, and the light from one apartment flickered as someone inside turned off their lamp for the night. Somewhere, a bus rumbled past without stopping. Some cars followed it.

Noah stole a glance at his companion. “You’ve been here long?”

“A while.”

“Born here?”

“Yeah.” The word came simply, without elaboration.

Noah waited, half-expecting more, but none came. “You like it?”

The man’s eyes softened toward the wet street ahead. “It’s quiet. That helps.”

Noah smiled, faintly. “I think that’s why I came back. I thought the quiet might… help.”

The stranger looked at him then, the corner of his mouth tilting. “Does it?”

“Not yet.”

The rain’s rhythm deepened, tapping faster now against the umbrella, the pavement, their shoes. A gust of wind carried a faint smell of the sea, salt and cold.

He spoke again, voice low, almost thoughtful. “Funny how we come back to places expecting them to fix something that broke somewhere else.”

“You sound like you know that feeling.” Noah turned to him.

“Maybe.” He gave a short, gentle smile.

Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, neither looked away. Then he man shifted his gaze toward the distant glow of a traffic light. “We should keep moving before the rain decides to remember it’s supposed to pour.”

They walked on, the world narrowing to the steady whisper of the rain and the soft hum of their shared silence.

The drizzle thickened as they neared the corner, the kind that pricked lightly at the air, gathering on their coats and hair until each drop gleamed in the lamplight. It wasn’t yet a downpour, but it was close enough to make them search the street for shelter—a*****e awning, a bus stop, anything with a ledge wide enough to hide beneath. There was none. Only the umbrella stood between them and the rain’s quiet insistence.

The man adjusted it slightly again, instinctively leaning closer so the edge tilted more toward Noah. Their shoulders brushed—once, twice—and stayed near, the faint heat of proximity grounding them against the cold dampness that pressed from every side.

The sound of the rain deepened, rhythmic and full, but they kept walking. It filled the spaces between passing headlights and the faint hum of a traffic light turning red, green, then red again. Noah could smell the wet asphalt and the faint sweetness of soap from Elias’s sleeve where it brushed his own.

Then, without looking up, he spoke softly, his voice almost lost to the weather. “You know, I’ve had dinner and have been walking with you all this time and I never asked your name.”

Glancing at him, the kind stranger’s eyes were unreadable in the half-light.

“It’s Elias,” he replied simply.

The name settled in the air between them, soft and unfamiliar yet strangely resonant. Noah repeated it under his breath, testing it. “Elias.” After a moment, he smiled and stepped out from under the umbrella, into the rain.

He stopped just beyond the edge of the umbrella, rain immediately gathering on his hair and coat. He extended his hand toward him. “It’s properly nice to meet you, Elias.”

For a moment, Elias only stared, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Then, without thinking, he reached out—not to shake Noah’s hand, but to pull him back under the umbrella. His fingers wrapped around Noah’s wrist, firm but gentle, and he drew him close with one quick motion.

The rain poured harder, bouncing off the pavement and the edge of the umbrella. In that small circle of shelter, they were suddenly inches apart.

Noah’s breath caught. His free hand brushed against Elias’s coat, cold and damp. The air between them carried the smell of rain and faint soap.

Elias’s eyes lifted to his, calm but searching. A drop of water slid from his hair onto his cheek.

Neither of them spoke.

The rain drowned everything else out. The sound filled the space between their breaths, between the tremor of Noah’s pulse and the stillness in Elias’s expression. For a brief, unguarded moment, the world shrank to the warmth of shared air and the tension of being too close. Noah could feel Elias’s breath against his face, slow, steady. He felt his heard racing at the moment.

It was Noah who moved first, stepping back slightly, though he found Elias’s hand still around his wrist, as if he hadn’t realized he was still holding on. And Elias, who froze at first, staring at Noah, finally blinked, the smallest trace of startlement flickering across his face. Then he let go, his fingers retreating as though from something fragile.

The air between them shifted—cooler now, touched by a quiet awkwardness neither knew how to name.

“Sorry,” Elias murmured, his voice low enough that it almost disappeared beneath the rain.

Noah shook his head, smiling halfly, though his chest felt unsteady. “You saved me from drowning.”

That gave Elias a small ghost of a smile. “In rain?”

“It’s Graybridge. You never know.”

They both laughed softly, the tension unraveling just enough for them to keep walking again.

By the time they neared Rainmere Flats, the rain had softened to a drizzle once more. The apartment building stood like a dark silhouette against the fog, its old bricks glistening faintly. Light from the entrance cast pale gold on the wet steps.

Elias held the door again, just as he had at the diner. Noah stepped in first, the faint echo of rain following them into the narrow lobby. The front desk was empty—the manager probably somewhere upstairs, checking on tenants before the storm grew worse. Elias closed his umbrella with a quiet shake, droplets scattering to the floor, then fell into step beside him as they headed toward the stairs. Noah’s boots squelched against the concrete. He pointed upward, saying with a trace of happiness. “Second floor.”

Elias nodded toward the top. “Fourth.”

For a moment, neither moved. The rain tapped quietly against the railing, and the distant echo of a passing car rippled through the street.

Noah shifted his weight, his voice softer now. “Thanks for having dinner and walking with me. And, you know, for the umbrella rescue.”

Elias’s eyes lingered on him for a second longer than needed. “You’re welcome.”

Then, after a pause, he went on. “Get some rest, Noah.”

The way he said his name carried a quiet familiarity, as though he’d known it longer than an evening. Noah felt that echo settle in his chest. He smiled, nodding once. “Goodnight, Elias.”

“Goodnight.”

Elias turned first, taking the stairs two at a time with the soft creak of old wood fading as he reached the upper floors. Noah stood still for a while, listening to the rain, to the faint sound of Elias’s door opening somewhere above.

When he finally climbed to his own apartment, the air inside smelled faintly of dust and the faint sweetness of rain drifting through the half-open window. He set his coat to dry, sat on the edge of the bed, and found himself replaying the night—the warmth of the diner, the sound of laughter, the brief press of Elias’s hand against his.

He exhaled slowly, realizing his pulse still hadn’t quite calmed.

Upstairs, in a room two floors above, Elias stood by his own window, watching the rain slide down the glass. His reflection stared back—tired, distant, but with something new in his expression he couldn’t name.

Outside, Graybridge shimmered beneath the steady drizzle, the streets alive with soft gold and shadow.

And somewhere between the second and fourth floors of Rainmere Flats, the quiet remembered what it felt like—two strangers standing too close under the same rain.