The rain comes sudden and heavy, rushing down from the sky in thick sheets, drumming against the wooden roof. The village, always quiet at night, feels even more distant beneath the downpour, the streets empty, the world outside blurred by the misty curtain of rain.
Inside the café, Ayato moves with slow familiarity, wiping down the counter as the scent of freshly steeped tea lingers in the warm air. The storm outside makes the café feel smaller, more intimate—a single pocket of light in the vast, darkened village.
Then, the chime of the doorbell rings.
Ayato looks up.
Someone has entered.
A woman stands just past the threshold, drenched from the rain. Her white kimono clings to her frame, soaked through, the fabric nearly translucent in places. Droplets fall from her sleeves, pooling onto the wooden floor. Her dark hair sticks to her cheeks, her eyes swollen—like she's been crying.
For a moment, neither of them speak.
The candlelight flickers between them. The rain pounds against the roof.
"…You're soaked," Ayato finally says, breaking the silence. "Wait here."
He moves instinctively, grabbing a dry towel from behind the counter. When he turns back—
She is gone.
The door is still open, swaying slightly in the wind.
Outside, the rain continues to fall, washing away any trace of footprints on the stone path.
Ayato sets the teacup down in front of her.
The porcelain clinks softly against the wooden table, the sound barely audible over the steady drumming of rain outside. Steam curls upward in delicate tendrils, wrapping around the woman's face, but she does not move.
She just sits there, fingers trembling as they hover over the cup.
The café is silent, save for the soft crackling of the candlelight. The weight of something unspoken lingers between them, thick as the mist curling through the village.
Ayato doesn't press. He only watches as she finally wraps her hands around the teacup, as if drawing warmth from it.
She stares at the rising steam, unmoving.
Seconds stretch into minutes. The tea cools.
Then, at last—
A breath.
A voice, soft and broken, slipping into the stillness.
"…It's been so long."
Her words barely disturb the air, yet they settle deep into Ayato's chest, like a ripple spreading across an undisturbed pond.
He waits, listening.
But she says nothing more.
The rain outside has softened to a quiet drizzle, its rhythm a gentle lull against the wooden walls. The candlelight flickers, stretching shadows across the floor.
The woman's fingers tighten around the teacup, as if holding onto something fragile.
"I used to live here," she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "In this village."
Ayato stays silent, sensing that her words are not meant to be interrupted.
She exhales softly, staring into the tea as if it holds something she lost long ago.
"I left when I was young. I thought the world outside had more to offer… that I had time." A faint, bitter smile touches her lips. "I always thought I could come back whenever I wanted."
She swallows, her grip on the cup trembling.
"But when I finally did… it was too late."
The room is still, save for the distant chirping of crickets, the occasional drip of rainwater from the eaves.
"I never got to say goodbye."
Ayato watches as tears slip down her cheeks, quiet and unbidden. They fall into the tea she hasn't touched, dissolving into the warmth like something disappearing forever.
She doesn't wipe them away.
And for a long moment, neither of them speak.
Ayato doesn't know what to say.
Some wounds have no cure. Some regrets have no answers.
So, instead of speaking, he reaches for the teapot.
The soft trickle of warm tea fills the silence, steam rising once more between them. The faint scent of roasted leaves lingers in the air, wrapping the moment in quiet warmth.
The woman watches, her gaze distant yet present, as if caught between the past and the present.
Ayato sets the pot down, then hesitates before speaking. His voice is quiet, uncertain, but steady.
"…Maybe she already forgave you."
The woman's fingers tighten slightly around the cup.
"Maybe," he continues, "she was just happy knowing you thought of her."
She stares at him for a long moment, her lips parting as if to speak—but no words come.
Then, slowly, her shoulders relax.
She takes a deep, trembling breath, as if releasing something she had been holding onto for far too long.
A tear lingers at the corner of her eye, but she doesn't let it fall.
Instead, she smiles.
A small, bittersweet smile.
She rises, movements unhurried, as if savoring the last moments of a lingering dream.
Her kimono whispers softly with the motion, the candlelight casting gentle shadows across its pale fabric. She bows deeply—lower than necessary, as if offering gratitude not just for the tea, but for something more.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
Ayato nods, unsure what else to say.
She turns, sliding open the wooden door. Beyond it, the village rests in hushed stillness. The rain has long since stopped, leaving the world washed clean. Moonlight spills across the glistening stone path, tracing silver lines through the puddles.
She steps forward.
Ayato watches, expecting to hear the soft rustle of her footsteps against the damp earth. But there is no sound. No echo of movement.
She walks onward—
And then—
She is simply gone.
No silhouette fading into the distance. No trace left behind.
Just the moonlit path stretching endlessly into the night.
Ayato lingers at the doorway, hand resting against the wooden frame. A breeze drifts through the trees, carrying the scent of rain and something faintly sweet—cherry blossoms, though none are in bloom.
Behind him, the candle flickers.
And from the veranda, the black cat watches.
Morning arrives gently, slipping in through the wooden slats of the café. The scent of damp earth lingers from last night's rain, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed tea.
Ayato moves through the quiet space, tidying up before opening for the day. His footsteps are soft against the wooden floor. Everything is just as he left it.
Almost.
At one of the low wooden tables, the teacup still sits.
Untouched.
The tea inside has cooled completely, its surface smooth and unbroken. Not a single sip had been taken.
Ayato frowns. His memory of last night feels hazy, like mist rolling through the village streets. She had sat there, hands wrapped around the cup, warmth pooling against her fingertips. He had watched as tears slipped into the tea. He was sure of it.
But now, in the gentle light of morning, it looks as though the cup had never been touched at all.
A breeze stirs the curtains.
From the veranda, the black cat sits watching him.
Unblinking.
As if it knows something he does not.