The rain fell in a fine mist, heavying the late afternoon air. Droplets splashed softly against the black umbrella I held, a rhythm that seemed to match the steady beat of my heart. I stood outside the family gathering hall, beneath a dim lamp casting its reflection on the wet stone steps.

I knew she hadn’t asked me to come, and maybe she preferred I hadn’t waited. But I couldn’t let her walk out alone after a meeting like that—one that always followed her home in invisible wounds.

The door opened, and she appeared in the doorway, her steps quick, almost as though running away. Her ivory-white dress swayed, revealing a glimpse of her ankles, shielded by slender heels. Her black hair fell messily over her shoulders, dampened by the humid air.

Her footsteps echoed on the marble stairs, her breathing heavy, shoulders tense. Her fingers gripped her bag tightly. She kept her face lowered, but her eyes—partly hidden by her hair—burned with unspent anger.

I could already guess what had happened inside. Our family gatherings were never simple. Someone always smiled sweetly while stabbing invisible knives. And for her, this afternoon had been another battlefield she faced alone.

I straightened up, holding my breath as she reached the last step. One step forward, and I tilted my umbrella toward her. My shoulder grew damp, but it didn’t matter. She paused for a fraction of a second—long enough for me to catch a trace of fragility in her expression—before lifting her chin again.

“All done?” I asked softly.

No reply. Only footsteps moving, as if my words were part of the rain’s murmur. I followed her, matching my pace, my umbrella angled toward her. My hand—almost without thinking—brushed her upper arm for a moment, just to be sure she was really there.

“They don’t matter,” she said finally, her voice hoarse, cold, though her fingers trembled as they reached for the edge of her coat.

I didn’t respond. Some things didn’t need words—only presence. The wind came from the left, and I shifted, taking the brunt of it. She didn’t turn, perhaps unaware, but I didn’t care. It was enough to know she wasn’t alone tonight.

We walked down the glistening sidewalk. City lights shimmered in the puddles, blurring into moving patterns with each step. I glanced at her—her jawline still taut, gaze fixed ahead, but the grip on her bag was loosening.

She always wanted to appear strong. She built walls between herself and everyone, even me. And I? I stood outside those walls, knocking gently, waiting for the door to open. Maybe it would take a long time. Maybe forever. But I didn’t mind.

One thing always lingered: this relationship wasn’t our choice. Our engagement had been arranged by the family to strengthen business ties and preserve a great name’s honor. Neither of us had been asked. It was announced that we would be a couple.

To others, it was happy news. To us, it was a strange journey—two strangers forced to walk the same path. But under it all, I had come to admire her: the way she stood tall under pressure, the loneliness she never showed.

Under the same umbrella, I glanced at her again. The rain still danced in the air, the chill seeping through our coats. There was a gap between us that couldn’t be seen. But for the first time that night, I decided to step a little closer.

My hand moved slowly, touching the back of hers. She glanced briefly, her brows lifting slightly, but she didn’t pull away. I took her hand fully, my fingers warming it with a steady grip.

“Tell me if you ever need me for anything,” I said.

For a moment, beneath everything left unspoken, I felt her hand return the grip—lightly, but undeniably.