Part Two — The City That Borrowed Her Voice
The Apartment by the River
She had moved into a narrow apartment above a bookstore — the kind of place that smelled like rain and forgotten pages. The city she chose wasn’t loud, but it never slept. From her window, she could see the river bending around the old clock tower, carrying the reflection of neon signs and unspoken thoughts. She kept her suitcase half unpacked, as if she didn’t trust the walls to hold her forever. On the nightstand sat the same coffee mug she used back home, a chipped white ceramic one with faint lipstick stains. And draped over the chair by the window — her worn hoodie, soft and faded, still stitched with those words that had outlived distance: Missingsincethursday
.
The Letters She Never Sent
Every Thursday, she’d sit by her window and write him a letter she never mailed. Sometimes it was a page long, sometimes just a line. “I saw a boy wearing your hoodie today.” “It rained again, the kind of rain that sounds like forgiveness.” “Do you still talk to the window?” She’d fold each one neatly, tuck it inside a notebook labeled Maybe Someday, and press a dried petal between the pages. There were dozens of them now — small monuments of emotion she couldn’t destroy, memories she couldn’t wear anymore but refused to throw away. She often wondered if he still kept the notes she left behind. Deep down, she knew he did.
The Thursdays That Changed Their Names
Time didn’t stop for either of them. Thursdays became just days again — but not entirely. For her, they still carried a weight, a quiet pulse. She’d wake up slower on those mornings, make her coffee differently, turn her phone over twice before unlocking it. The sound of rain on glass always made her pause. That was when the ache returned — not sharp, not heavy, just steady. It was the kind of ache that didn’t hurt to carry anymore, like a scar that had learned how to breathe. And every time she saw the sleeve of that hoodie hanging by the chair, she felt safe — not because of what it was, but because of what it remembered.
The Gallery of Forgotten Things
She started working at a small art gallery near the river, a place that showcased photographs of things people often overlooked — shadows, door hinges, rain puddles, reflections. It was her kind of silence. The owner, an old woman named Hana, often found her lost in thought, staring at a photograph of two umbrellas crossing paths in a storm. “You look like you’re waiting for something,” Hana said once. “Not waiting,” she replied softly. “Remembering.” She didn’t know why she said it — it just came out that way. Later that evening, as she closed up the gallery, she slipped a note under the photograph’s frame: “Every shadow comes from a light that once stayed.”
The Stranger With the Camera
One afternoon, a man came into the gallery with a vintage camera. He looked tired but kind, the sort of person who understood silence. He took a few photos, then paused by the window. “You’ve got that look,” he said. She smiled faintly. “What look?” “Like you’re still in love with something that’s not here.” She didn’t answer. He didn’t press. Instead, he took one picture — her standing beside the rain-speckled glass, the reflection of the city lights blending into her hoodie. When he handed her the developed photo a week later, the caption on the back read: “Still here. Still Thursday.”
The Return of the Song
That evening, she walked home in the rain for the first time in months. The streets glowed gold under the lamps, puddles catching fragments of neon. A street musician was playing an old tune — soft, melancholic, familiar. It was the same song that used to play at their favorite café, the one where they met on that first Thursday. She froze. For a moment, it felt like the city itself remembered. She pulled the hoodie closer, the words Missingsincethursday
gleaming faintly beneath the rain, and whispered, “I hear you.” Maybe he couldn’t hear her across the miles, but maybe memory could.
The Call She Never Made
There were nights she thought of calling him — just to hear his voice, even if it sounded different now. She’d type his number, stare at it until the digits blurred, then delete them. Not because she didn’t want to talk, but because some goodbyes don’t end with silence — they live inside it. Instead, she’d pour herself tea, open her notebook, and write one more letter. “If you ever look out the window and see the rain fall sideways, that’s me thinking of you.”
The Gift She Sent
Months later, she packed a small box — no note, no return address. Inside, she placed the old photograph of them together, the one with the rain frozen mid-fall. Beneath it, she folded her hoodie gently, the fabric still warm from her touch. She tied the box with thin thread, sealed it with wax, and sent it to his old address. She didn’t know if he still lived there. She didn’t care. What mattered was that it would arrive on a Thursday.
Part Three — The Window Remembers Again
The Parcel
He wasn’t expecting it. The box arrived quietly, no sender name, just his address written in her familiar handwriting. The moment he saw it, his pulse stuttered. He opened it slowly — the smell hit him first. Rain, fabric, her. When he saw the hoodie folded neatly, he almost laughed and cried at once. Beneath it, the photo. Them. Rain paused midair. Time paused again. He pressed the photo against his chest and whispered, “You did come back.” And in that quiet house, the window glowed softly in the light of morning.
The Return of Thursday
The next morning, it rained. Of course it did. He put on the hoodie, even though it hung a little loose now, and walked to the café where they’d met. The place hadn’t changed — still the same wooden tables, the same hum of distant conversation. He sat by the window, ordered two coffees, and waited. Not for her — but for the memory to breathe again. Outside, the city blurred behind rain, and for a second, he swore he saw her reflection sitting across from him, smiling that soft, quiet smile that only belonged to her.
The Closing Line
He took a napkin, wrote a single sentence, and left it on the table before leaving:
“Some goodbyes don’t end. They echo.”
Then he stepped into the rain, hoodie drawn close, the words across his sleeve glowing under the streetlight — Missingsincethursday
. And somewhere in another city, she looked out her window, feeling the rain fall sideways, and smiled without knowing why.