The night wrapped the city in a heavy, warm blanket. The rain had just passed — the asphalt gleamed, reflecting neon lights and streetlamps, as if soaking in every whim of the noisy metropolis.

The bar The Blue Lily hid behind a faded sign and a wooden door with peeling paint. There was no unnecessary fuss here — only thick tobacco smoke, the scent of expensive whiskey, and music that seeped under the skin.

Inside, dimness reigned. The dull glow of lamps with yellow shades scattered the shadows, as if afraid to disturb them. The floor creaked beneath heels, and the bartender silently polished a glass, his eyes fixed on the saxophonist in the corner of the stage.

He played like he was remembering a past life — slowly, drawn out, with a raspy tenderness. Jazz flowed through the room like wine in a glass — smooth, with a hint of bitterness. Fingers on the piano keys caught every chord, turning the melody into a confession.

The bartender leaned over the counter, methodically wiping a glass that was already clean. Leon’s hands moved out of habit, unhurried. He threw a glance at the clock: 9:07 PM. A few minutes late. That meant she’d been smoking outside — or watching the rain fall.

The door creaked on cue. He didn’t even lift his eyes — just glanced left. She sat down, as always, on the farthest stool — one that wobbled slightly, though she never complained.

Leon set an ashtray in front of her, flicking his lighter at the same time — the flame flared up between them.

— You look like the end of a song, — he said, his voice raspier than usual.