The rain was soft against the café windows, drawing lazy veins across the glass. Inside, the usual hum of espresso machines mixed with the low murmur of early afternoon regulars. Mara sat with her back to the wall, sipping black coffee, while Theo stirred his with too much sugar and not enough purpose.
Neither of them had spoken much yet. It wasn't uncomfortable. Just quiet.
Then Theo looked up, like he'd been trying to talk himself out of saying something for the past five minutes and had just failed.
"Do you remember the first time you were really scared?" he asked.
Mara didn't answer immediately.
She didn't flinch either.
She just set her cup down, eyes on the street outside, and exhaled through her nose—like the question had found her at the exact wrong moment… or maybe the right one.
"That's not a small question," she said finally.
"I know," Theo replied, not apologizing. "But I figured... we're past small."
A pause.
Then she said, "It wasn't on the job, if that's what you're assuming."
He blinked. "I wasn't. But—okay."
"It was a Tuesday," she said, almost flatly. "I was seventeen. My dad had been sober for six months, which in our house was basically a world record. I came home from school and found him sitting in the kitchen. Just sitting. In the dark. No bottles. Just… this look. Like something in him had already slipped, but the rest of him hadn't caught up yet."
Theo didn't move. He barely breathed.
Mara's eyes stayed distant, not looking at him.
"I didn't say anything. I just walked backward, quietly, and called my aunt from the payphone outside the gas station. I didn't go home for three days. And when I finally did, the kitchen was clean again. He was wearing a tie. Like nothing happened."
"Did he…?" Theo started, gently.
She shook her head. "He lived. Stayed clean another two months. Then he didn't."
A silence settled between them like a third person at the table.
Theo leaned back in his chair. "I didn't mean to—"
"Don't do that," Mara cut in, soft but firm. "Don't apologize for asking. You didn't pull the memory out of me. It's mine. I bought it."
He nodded, but still felt guilty about his question earlier.
"I asked because," Theo said, voice lower now, "I think I've been scared for years and only just figured out that's what it is."
That got her attention.
Her gaze met his, quiet and sharp.
"Tell me," she said.
And this time, he did.
He told her about the panic attacks he used to hide under asthma excuses. About nights he couldn't sleep because every choice felt like a wrong one waiting to happen. About his dad's silence, and his mom's frantic cheerfulness, and the long, invisible middle he kept sinking through.
He didn't cry. He didn't dramatize.
He just told it, like someone who needed to say it out loud to know it was real.
Mara didn't interrupt. She didn't nod like a therapist or flinch like someone out of her depth.
She just listened.
When he was finished, she picked up her cup and said, "We keep those stories under the skin until they fester."
Theo looked down. "Feels like mine's been festering for a while."
She offered a dry smile. "Good news is, you've already started draining it."
They sat there quietly, just for a stretch of time. Two people, sharing a small table in the corner of a cozy café. The hum of chatter and the clink of cups filled the space around them, but they barely noticed. Each had a mug of coffee in front of them, steaming softly, the warmth seeping into their hands. It wasn't a loud or dramatic moment, but something deeper simmered beneath the surface. They weren't rushing to fill the silence with words. Instead, they shared a simple, honest connection.
There was a need to say nothing, yet everything was understood. This was a space where words weren't necessary. It was a quiet kind of friendship that didn't ask for fixing, and didn't require reassurance. It simply existed.
A week later, it was Theo who arrived early.
He sat at their usual corner table, a second coffee already waiting across from him. He kept glancing at the door like he expected her to change her mind.
She didn't.
Mara walked in, same calm stride, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up like she'd wrestled with her own hesitation before showing up.
She sat down, glanced at the second cup, and raised an eyebrow. "You got my order wrong."
He grinned. "I know. It's a peace offering."
"Didn't know we were at war."
"Preemptive diplomacy."
That got the faintest smile from her. Not performative. Just real.
They sat for a moment with nothing to fill the silence.
Then Mara reached into her coat pocket and slid something across the table. It was small, rectangular, and wrapped in an old flannel cloth. Theo stared at it, confused.
"I'm not giving it to you," she said. "Just letting you see it."
He unwrapped the cloth slowly, revealing a wooden box the size of a paperback, worn smooth at the corners. There was no lock, no decoration—just a faint scent of sandalwood that drifted up as he opened the lid.
Inside were objects.
A hospital bracelet, yellowed with age. A broken police-issue nameplate with someone else's name. A tiny figurine of a ceramic dog with a cracked ear. A folded index card with a child's drawing of what might've been a firetruck. And a single bullet—clean, unspent.
Theo looked up at her, but Mara was staring out the window, unreadable.
"It's my story box," she said finally. "Not the public one. The real one."
He blinked. "These are…?"
"Moments," she said. "Keepsakes of things I don't say out loud. Things that made me. Or broke me. Depending on the day."
Theo nodded slowly. "The bullet?"
She glanced at him, then away. "My first call where I drew my weapon. Didn't fire. Never had to. But it felt like a line had been crossed just by touching it. So I kept one. As a reminder."
He was quiet.
"Do you ever open it?" he asked. "Or is it more of a vault?"
"I opened it," she said. "But not often. Usually when I'm feeling too much or too little. Helps me remember the weight of things."
Theo gently set the box down and rewrapped it in the flannel like it was fragile, sacred.
When he slid it back to her, he said, "Thank you. For trusting me with that."
Mara shrugged, but not dismissively.
"I trusted you because you didn't try to rescue anything," she said. "You just heard it. Most people don't know how to do that."
He sat back, humbled.
"I think it's because I wish someone had done the same for me," he admitted.
She gave a single nod. "Then you're already ahead of most people your age."
He smiled, but didn't reply.
And for a long time, they just drank their coffee and watched the rain trace thin silver lines down the glass—each one temporary, each one real.
.
.
.
.
.
End of Chapter 4