The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting a warm golden hue over the worn pages of the book in Rahman’s hands. He looked up as you walked in, his expression unreadable for a moment — until the corners of his lips curved into that soft, barely-there smile he always gave you.

“I saved your spot,” he said simply, patting the empty space on the bench beside him.

You hesitated, but he didn’t rush you. He just went back to flipping the page, the steady rhythm of his presence saying more than words could. Then, after a pause, he spoke again — this time quieter.

“You don’t have to talk. You can just... be.”

And somehow, that offer — simple, steady, and sure — felt like everything you needed.