The next morning, the rain was gone, leaving behind damp streets and the faint smell of earth. Nora sat by her bedroom window, staring at the drawing she had made the night before. The stranger's eyes stared back at her from the page — intense, quiet, unforgettable.
She had barely slept. Something about that man had settled deep inside her thoughts, like a melody stuck on repeat. Who was he? Why had he looked at her like that? And why did it feel like their meeting was more than just coincidence?
Nora closed the sketchbook and took a deep breath. She had class in less than an hour, but she wasn't thinking about architecture lectures or deadlines. She kept seeing the rain. His face. That moment.
At the university, the day passed slowly. She barely listened. Her friend, Lina, kept asking if she was okay.
"You look... different," Lina said during lunch. "Like you saw a ghost or something."
Nora smiled faintly. "Not a ghost. Just... someone."
Lina raised an eyebrow. "Someone? Like a guy?"
Nora nodded slowly. "I don't know who he was. I saw him in the rain. He didn't speak, but... it felt like he did."
Lina laughed. "That's either really poetic or really creepy."
"Maybe both," Nora said, but her tone was serious.
That night, unable to stop herself, she returned to the bookstore street. It wasn't raining now, just cold and quiet. The bookstore lights were off, the windows dark. But she stood there anyway, waiting.
Nothing.
She turned to leave — but then she heard something.
Footsteps.
Slow, steady.
She froze.
From the end of the street, a figure approached. Same height. Same calm walk.
Her breath caught.
But as he stepped under the streetlight, her heart sank. It wasn't him.
This man was older, carrying groceries, wearing a scarf.
Nora exhaled, almost angry with herself for hoping.
She walked home slowly, disappointed but unsure why. It had been just one look, one silent moment. Why couldn't she let it go?
She placed her sketchbook on her desk and opened it again. There were no answers on the page, just charcoal lines forming a face she didn't know.
Until something caught her eye.
A smudge.
No — not a smudge. A mark.
A word.
She hadn't written anything on the drawing. She was sure.
But now, under the stranger's left eye, small and faint, was a word:
"Soon."
Her hands trembled. She leaned closer. Was it her imagination? Had she drawn that in half-sleep?
Or… was it already there?
The air around her suddenly felt heavy. The room was silent, but her heart pounded.
Soon.
It wasn't a promise.
It was a warning.