Rain tapped softly on the windows of a small corner café. The city was unusually quiet, bathed in mist and jazz music that played low in the background. It felt like the kind of evening where stories began without warning.
She walked in.
Wearing a long black trench coat and short denim shorts underneath, her hair slightly wet from the rain, she looked like a frame from a European film—moody, effortless, intriguing.
Her name was Lena.
No one knew much about her. She came and went like passing weather. But when she was there, people noticed—quietly, curiously.
In the far corner, Grant, a struggling playwright, sat with a half-empty cup of coffee and a notebook filled with crossed-out lines. He watched the rain, trying to write something that felt true.
Until he saw her.
She skimmed through the books on the café shelf, her fingers brushing the spines with thoughtfulness. Then, she glanced at him. Just once. A knowing look.
“What are you writing?” she asked, her voice as smooth as warm honey.
Grant smiled. “About a woman who looks a lot like you… but I don’t know her yet.”
She tilted her head, lips curving slightly. “If you want to know her, I’m here—until the rain stops.”
Their conversation unfolded like a jazz tune—slow, improvised, but meaningful. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, it felt like poetry in motion. He wanted to write it all down, but also just listen.
As the rain began to fade, she stood.
“I should go…” she said, not wanting to, not really.
“Can I keep writing about you?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. She simply smiled and placed a small folded paper on the table before walking out.
It read:
“Page two… let’s see if you can write it well.”