He could have been her teacher, her mentor, maybe even her father. Twenty years separated them, but that evening, that distance seemed insignificant compared to what the silence whispered to them.

Night had fallen suddenly, like a curtain drawn too quickly. The inky sky seemed to engulf the entire city. Only a few lamps cast a flickering golden light on the damp cobblestones. It had rained all day, and the air smelled of cold earth and dead leaves. She walked alone, her coat half-open, the wind seeping into her clothes as if to keep her awake.

It was there, on that narrow street she crossed every evening without paying attention, that she saw him. He was there, motionless, leaning against an old lamppost, a barely smoldering cigarette at his fingertips. The smoke mingled with the evening mist, as if he were blending into the background.

She slowed down. Not out of fear. Out of instinct. He wasn't moving. He was looking away, lost in an elsewhere she couldn't see. But deep inside her, a shiver rose. Not the kind that frightens. The kind that warns: something has changed.

He saw her stop. A faint smile, barely perceptible, touched his lips.

"Are you always walking alone at this hour?" he asked in a low, raspy, almost weary voice.

She hesitated, surprised that he was speaking to her. But she didn't look away.

"And you, are you always waiting for someone in the rain?"

He gave a light laugh, deep, restrained. Then he stubbed out his cigarette against the railing, without taking his eyes off her.

"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just waiting to be noticed."