The streets of Kyoto shimmered beneath a thin curtain of rain.
Drops ticked against the awnings of sleepy shops, slipping from the edges like forgotten thoughts. The city seemed to breathe more softly on days like this—its usual noise tucked away, muffled by the rhythm of falling water. The neon signs, the hurried steps of schoolchildren, the rumble of delivery bikes—all distant, all blurred by the gentle veil of drizzle.
Ren Sakamoto, twenty years old and quieter than most, stood under the narrow overhang of Kawabata Secondhand Books, where he worked part-time. The store was mostly empty during the rainy season. Only the elderly came by now, buying faded paperbacks and chatting briefly about the weather before vanishing again, like ghosts drawn to the smell of old stories.
Ren held his messenger bag close. The fabric was damp, and a corner of his well-worn notebook poked out—creased pages, half-scribbled thoughts, and maybe a poem or two he'd never dare read aloud.
He should've gone home ten minutes ago.
But he hadn't moved.
He didn't hate his apartment—it was small, plain, but comfortable. Tidy. But lately, it had started to feel too quiet. As though the silence inside the walls had grown teeth, and every second he spent alone was another second feeding it.
Across the narrow street, at a little bus stop framed by persimmon trees and vending machines, someone was sitting.
She wore a pale yellow raincoat. Not flashy—more like something borrowed from childhood. Her long black hair clung to her cheeks and neck, heavy with rain. An umbrella lay beside her, still closed.
But what struck Ren most was her stillness.
Everyone else on the street moved. Heads ducked, steps hurried, umbrellas twirling.
She just sat. Calm. As if the rain had nothing to do with her.
Ren couldn't look away. He didn't know why. She wasn't doing anything. She wasn't even looking in his direction.
Still, something about her held him.
Maybe it was because she looked like a dream in a world too noisy to dream.
He blinked and looked down, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Staring at strangers wasn't something he did.
But when he looked back up—she was staring right at him.
And then... she smiled.
Not a wide, glowing smile. Not flirtatious. Just... gentle. The kind of smile that says, "I see you. And it's okay."
Ren didn't smile back.
He couldn't.
His chest felt too tight.
He looked away and stepped into the rain.
---
The walk home should've been quick.
But that smile lingered in his mind. Like the smell of wet earth after rain, it clung to everything.
He thought about the way her umbrella had stayed shut beside her. He thought about how the rain didn't seem to bother her, the way it usually bothered everyone else.
And more than anything, he thought about that smile.
When he got home, he didn't turn the lights on right away. He dropped his bag by the door, walked to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and stood by the window, watching the rain trail down the glass like quiet handwriting.
He picked up his notebook.
Flipped to a clean page.
And wrote a line.
> "There was a girl who didn't need an umbrella."
He paused.
Then underlined it.
---
The next day passed like the ones before it.
Coffee in the morning. A train ride half-spent staring at his reflection in the window. Customers at the bookstore asking for authors he hadn't read. An old man bought a mystery novel. A woman picked up a children's book, smiled at him, and said, "For my granddaughter."
But through all of it, Ren's mind drifted.
He wondered if she'd be there again.
---
And she was.
Exactly two days later. The same spot. Same yellow raincoat. The same unopened umbrella beside her.
This time, she was looking at him the moment he stepped outside.
She tilted her head, like she was waiting.
Something pulled him forward.
Ren crossed the street slowly, unsure why his feet were moving at all. He wasn't good at talking to strangers. Especially girls. Especially beautiful girls.
But when he reached the bench, she shifted slightly to the side, making space for him.
He sat down, leaving just enough distance to be polite. The air between them hummed with quiet.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The sound of rain filled the space instead.
Then she said, "You didn't bring an umbrella again."
Ren turned toward her, surprised by her voice. It was soft. Familiar, somehow, like he had heard it before in a memory he couldn't place.
"I don't really mind the rain," he replied.
She nodded thoughtfully. "Most people do."
"I guess I'm not most people."
She smiled again. "I figured that out the other day."
Ren raised an eyebrow, unsure whether she was teasing him or being sincere.
"I'm Yui," she said after a pause. "Yui Tachibana."
"Ren," he said. "Ren Sakamoto."
They shook hands—awkwardly, almost like children being introduced in school.
He expected that to be it. Just a name exchange. But instead, she asked, "Do you always walk home this late?"
"Only when it rains."
"Why?"
Ren hesitated. "Because it makes the world quieter."
Yui looked at him then—not just glanced, but really looked. Like she was reading something behind his eyes.
"I like the rain too," she said finally. "It makes it feel like everyone's gone, and I'm the only one left."
Ren didn't know what to say to that.
So, they sat in silence.
But it wasn't uncomfortable.
It was the kind of silence that asked nothing and gave everything.
---
They talked about small things. Cats that sneak into convenience stores. Why vending machines in Kyoto are always broken. A movie neither of them had seen but both pretended to like.
Ren laughed once—genuinely. It surprised even him.
When the rain lightened to a drizzle, he stood up.
"I should get going."
Yui nodded.
Then pulled something from her pocket—a folded paper towel.
"For your glasses," she said. "They're fogged."
He smiled as he took it. "Thanks."
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked, her voice hopeful but quiet.
Ren paused.
Then nodded.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence inside him didn't feel so heavy.
---
That night, Ren didn't write a poem.
Instead, he reread one he had written months ago. One he had forgotten. It was called "Things That Disappear When No One's Looking." And somehow, it made more sense now than it ever had.
He slept with the sound of rain against his window.
And dreamed of puddles that reflected people who weren't really there.
---