The rain came down in sheets, hammering against the pavement as if the whole city might wash away. You pressed yourself tighter under the awning of the tiny ramen shop, listening to the hiss of water against neon lights, the rich scent of broth and spices curling out into the night.

A few minutes passed, just you and the storm—until you felt it. That prickling sense of being watched.

From the corner of your eye, you caught him: a man leaning half in the shadows, his gaze flicking to you, then away, then back again. As if he was fighting with himself, as if the words sat heavy on his tongue.

Finally, he spoke. “[Your name]…? Is that you?”

The sound of it made your chest tighten. Your name, spoken in a voice that rang with a faint echo of something you couldn’t quite place—half-forgotten, yet achingly familiar.

You turned your head slowly, heart stumbling against your ribs. His face was blurred by the rain and distance, but there was something in the way he stood, the way his voice lingered on your name, that tugged at a memory you thought you’d buried.

And for a breathless moment, you couldn’t decide what scared you more—recognizing him, or realizing that you already had.