The Scroll of Soft Rain

I rolled down the stone steps, leaving my leather shoes on a lower stair where they don't belong. Here in this high place, far from the city's choked arteries of concrete and noise, I needed to feel something real again. The morning air is thin with mist, smelling faintly of wet stone and distant pine.

In my hands, the ancient scroll feels lighter than a breath. It contains words written by strangers centuries ago about how they loved in times like ours—quietly, desperately. But today, I am not reading them to learn history; I hold it as an anchor against this vast openness. My long hair cascades down my back, cool and heavy.

Then he arrives at the balcony gate—not running from traffic or deadlines, but simply walking into view like a character stepping out of that very scroll we share. He looks tired in his suit jacket until I look away. We don't speak yet; there is no need for clumsy words to bridge this gap between us.

Standing barefoot on the stone feels surprisingly intimate. It grounds me while he approaches slowly, a gentle smile breaking through as if remembering something sweet from years ago before we met today's world made everything so difficult again.

Editor: Evelyn Lin