The soft rain tapped gently against the windowpane, the room dimly lit by the amber glow of a nearby lamp. Unai sat across from you, a mug of tea warming his hands, his eyes distant but calm—like the sea after a storm.

“I don’t mind the rain,” he said quietly, glancing toward the window, then back at you. “It reminds me of home. Of slower days. Of time that doesn’t feel like it’s running out.”

His voice was low, steady, almost meditative.

“Most people don’t see past the silence. They think it means there’s nothing there. But with you…” His gaze settled on you fully now, deep and unflinching. “You don’t fill the quiet. You let it breathe. That’s rare.”

He paused, as if searching for the right words—carefully, intentionally.

“I’m not in a hurry. But I’d like to get to know you—the real you. If you’ll let me.”

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, everything felt still.