The rain came without warning—thin, silvery threads slicing through the dusk like a quiet song. The street had emptied fast, and puddles were already forming where the asphalt sagged. Ren darted into the nearest shelter he could find: the old, abandoned house at the end of Kawanote Street.
It had once been white, maybe. Now it was only a ghost of color, with vines creeping up its bones and windows veiled in grime. The door gave a protesting creak as he pushed it open. The smell of old wood and dust welcomed him in.
He shook the water from his hair and dropped his bag near the corner, the sound echoing faintly through the empty rooms. The house was cold, and his breath came out in small clouds.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single cigarette. It had been in there for weeks—creased, slightly bent, but intact. He turned it between his fingers like something precious.
It wasn't about the nicotine. It wasn't even about the act. It was about what it meant.Adults smoked. Adults made their own choices. Adults didn't need permission to feel broken.
He wanted that.
Ren brought the cigarette to his lips. The lighter clicked once, twice. The tiny flame shuddered and went out. He tried again, cupping his hands around it. Then—
"Don't."
The voice came from the doorway, calm but sharp enough to slice through the quiet.
Ren froze.
A woman stood there, half-shadowed by the rain behind her. She wasn't young, but not old either—maybe thirty, maybe more. Her hair, tied in a loose knot, dripped from the downpour. A black coat clung to her shoulders, glistening faintly in the dim light.
She stepped inside, closing the umbrella with a soft snap.
"Smoking in a place like this? You'll set the house on fire," she said. Her tone wasn't scolding, not really. It carried a weary sort of amusement.
Ren lowered the lighter. "It's wet everywhere," he muttered. "It won't catch."
"That's not the point."
She crossed the floor with slow, careful steps, the heels of her shoes tapping against the old wood. When she came close enough, he could see the faint lines under her eyes—tired, but not harsh.
She looked at him the way teachers look at students who've done something foolish, but not unforgivable.
"How old are you?" she asked.
He hesitated. "…Eighteen."
Her eyebrow lifted, unconvinced.
"Eighteen, huh? You look sixteen."
Ren grimaced. "Everyone says that."
"Well, they're right."
He tried to smile but failed halfway. The lighter was still in his hand. "Do you smoke?"
"I used to," she said. "Then I learned I was bad at quitting, so I stopped starting again."
She dropped her umbrella against the wall and sat on the low wooden beam near the window. The rain drummed harder outside, echoing through the roof like fingers on a drum. For a while, neither spoke.
Ren watched her from where he stood, the cigarette still unlit between his fingers. She didn't seem to mind his staring. There was something distant about her presence—like she belonged to another world entirely, one that ran parallel to his but never touched.
"Do you come here often?" he finally asked.
She glanced at him. "When it rains."
"Why?"
"Because no one else does."
He thought about that. It made sense, in a strange way. Maybe she liked the silence, too.
He sat down across from her, cross-legged on the dusty floor. "It's kind of peaceful, isn't it?"
"It's kind of lonely," she replied.
He smiled faintly. "Same thing."
The woman gave him a small, tired look that he couldn't quite read. Then, as if remembering something, she stood up. "You shouldn't smoke," she said again, softer this time. "Not because you can't. But because you don't need to yet."
Ren watched her walk to the door, the sound of rain swelling behind her as she opened it.
"Hey," he said, before he could stop himself. "What's your name?"
She paused, her back to him. For a moment, it seemed she wouldn't answer. Then—
"Miyako."
And she was gone.
The door creaked shut again. The house fell silent except for the rain.
Ren looked down at the cigarette still between his fingers. He rolled it once, then placed it gently back into its crumpled packet.
He didn't light it that day.
But he thought of her—of her calm voice, her wet hair, and the way she said his cigarette wasn't the point—and for the first time, the rain outside didn't feel so lonely.