He leaned his forehead
against the cold glass of
the window, watching the
street below turn into a
mirror. The library was
nearly empty, just him
and the night. The rain
was a low, continuous
voice, speaking to the
pavement.
It says: stay, stay,
stay.
He had nowhere to be.
His fingers traced the
condensation, leaving a
smudged line. The light
from the reading lamp
made a small, yellow
island on his desk. He
stretched his legs out,
letting the quiet in.
The storm didn't ask
anything of him. It just
fell, and he listened,
and for a moment, the
whole world was a
single, soft drumbeat.