Cherreads

Chapter 2 - The Boy with the Sketchbook

He chose the seat by the fogged-up window, setting his sketchbook gently on the table like it was something alive. Outside, the rain painted the glass in wavering rivers, turning the street into a blurred watercolor of gray, green, and gold.

Elara wiped her damp palms against her apron, forcing her steps to stay calm as she walked over.

"What can I get you?" she asked, voice softer than she meant.

He looked up at her then — properly, this time — and she felt something catch behind her ribs. Dark hair falling across his forehead, charcoal smudges on his fingers, eyes the color of overcast sky: calm, but restless at the edges.

"Do you have something warm?" he asked. "Anything you recommend on rainy days?"

She hesitated, then surprised herself by answering honestly:

"The chamomile latte. It tastes… like quiet afternoons."

"Then I'll have that," he said, smiling. "And maybe… a name to go with it?"

His voice was gentle, teasing but not insistent.

"Elara," she said. "And yours?"

"Ciel."

The word brushed against her memory, like a page turned by wind. She'd heard it before, she was certain — though she couldn't say where.

"Nice to meet you, Ciel," she said, her voice catching slightly on his name.

She turned back to the counter, heart beating an uneven rhythm. As the milk frothed, she stole glances at him: the way his fingers traced invisible lines on the table, how he watched the rain like it was telling him secrets.

By the time she placed the chamomile latte before him, her hands had steadied — almost.

"It might be a bit too floral," she warned. "But it's comforting."

"Comfort sounds perfect," he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

She stepped back, but instead of leaving, lingered by the counter, pretending to rearrange pastries. Through the glass case, she watched as he opened his sketchbook.

A page half-filled with sketches of people she didn't know… and then, unmistakably, her own face. Not exact, but the curve of her jaw, the tilt of her head, the way her hair slipped loose from its tie.

She caught her breath.He didn't see her watching; his pencil moved lightly, as though finishing something that had been waiting for years.

The rain softened, then thickened again, tapping its secret language on the windows.Customers drifted in and out, umbrellas dripping on the mat.

At some point, Ciel closed his sketchbook and looked at her.

"Is it always this quiet on Tuesdays?"

Elara almost answered with the truth: Tuesdays have never been quiet for me. But instead, she only said, "Sometimes."

"I like it," he said. "Feels like the world pauses, just for a while."

She nodded, not trusting her voice. In her chest, something whispered: Or maybe it only pauses so we can find each other.

They spoke little after that. He sipped the chamomile latte slowly, as if measuring its warmth against the rain outside. She served other customers, wiped tables, refilled sugar jars — but always felt his presence, like a candle flickering just behind her shoulder.

When he finally rose to leave, he hesitated by the door.

"Thank you, Elara," he said, quietly. "See you next Tuesday?"

The words hung in the air, delicate as breath.

"Yes," she heard herself say, though she wasn't sure why. "Next Tuesday."

The bell chimed softly as he stepped out into the rain. Elara stood very still, hand resting on the edge of the counter, listening to the quiet tick of the clock. Above the café door, the hands moved steadily toward the next hour — as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

But inside her chest, something had shifted. A memory not yet lived, a promise not yet spoken:

In every life, I find you. In every life, I hope you stay.

More Chapters