The days had started to blur together, the edges softening like the mist that hung over the river most nights. Their meetings became a rhythm, unspoken but steady, a small anchor in a world that often felt adrift.

This time, it was Wren who arrived first. She sat cross-legged on the ground, a small notebook balanced on her knee, the faint scratching of a pencil filling the quiet. Sol found her like that, the soft glow of a streetlamp casting her in silhouette.

"Writing your memoirs?" he asked, his voice breaking the stillness.

She didn't look up. "Something like that."

He leaned against the railing, watching her for a moment. The notebook was old, the corners bent, its cover speckled with raindrops from a lifetime ago.

"What are you really doing?" he asked.

Wren glanced at him, her pencil pausing mid-stroke. "Drawing," she said simply.

He raised an eyebrow. "You're an artist now?"

"Always have been," she replied, turning the notebook toward him. The page was filled with rough sketches—trees, the river, even a small figure standing at the edge of the railing.

"That's supposed to be me?" he asked, leaning closer.

She smirked. "You don't like it?"

"It's... rough."

"Rough can be honest," she said, closing the notebook with a snap. "Besides, I wasn't trying to capture you perfectly. Just the idea of you."

"The idea of me?"

She shrugged, slipping the notebook into her bag. "Everyone's more interesting in pieces."

Sol wasn't sure if he should feel insulted or flattered, but the way she said it made him feel seen in a way he hadn't expected.

"Come on," she said, standing and brushing off her jacket. "I've got something to show you."

He followed her without asking where they were going. That was how it worked with Wren—no explanations, just a quiet trust that whatever she had planned would make sense eventually.

They walked along the riverbank, the path winding through clusters of trees until they reached a clearing. Wren stopped and turned to him, her eyes glinting with something he couldn't quite name.

"What is this?" he asked.

She pointed to a spot just ahead, where a tangle of wildflowers grew in defiance of the city's concrete sprawl. The flowers were small and unassuming, their colors muted in the dim light.

"Night-blooming flowers," she said. "They only open after dark."

"Why bring me here?"

She smiled faintly, crouching to run her fingers over the petals. "Because sometimes the best things only show up when no one's looking."

Sol watched her, the way her hand hovered over the flowers without touching them, as though she respected their fragility too much to disturb them.

"You're strange, you know that?" he said, his voice soft.

She looked up at him, her expression unreadable. "Maybe. But you keep showing up, so what does that make you?"

"Stranger, I guess."

Her laugh was quiet, but it warmed the space between them.

They sat there for a while, side by side in the clearing, the wildflowers swaying gently in the night breeze. Wren picked one of the blooms, careful not to damage the others, and held it out to him.

"For your collection," she said.

"I don't have a collection."

"You do now."

He took the flower, turning it over in his fingers. It was small, delicate, its petals almost translucent. He wasn't sure what to do with it, but something about the gesture made his chest feel lighter.

✩

Their next meeting was different. Wren had brought a kite, an old one with faded colors and a few patches sewn into its fabric.

"A kite?" Sol asked, his skepticism clear.

She grinned, unfurling the string. "Don't tell me you've never flown one."

"Not since I was a kid."

"Then you're overdue."

They found an open stretch of parkland, the wind tugging at their jackets as Wren handed him the string.

"You start it," she said.

He held the kite uncertainly, watching as she ran ahead, the wind catching the fabric and pulling it upward. The kite wobbled at first, but soon it soared, its tail fluttering behind it like a comet.

"See?" Wren called over her shoulder. "Not so hard."

Sol couldn't help but smile as he let out more string, the kite climbing higher. For a moment, he felt like a kid again, the weight of the world slipping away.

Wren joined him, her hand brushing against his as she reached for the string. "Careful," she said, her voice teasing. "Don't let it get away."

"Why? It's just a kite."

She looked at him, her expression serious but soft. "Because even the small things deserve to be held onto."

Her words lingered in the air between them, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

By the time they returned to their usual spot by the river, the kite safely stowed away, the city lights had begun to blur again in the mist.

Wren leaned against the railing, her hair damp and sticking to her face. Sol stood beside her, the wildflower she'd given him tucked carefully into his pocket.

"Do you ever think about the future?" he asked suddenly.

She turned to him, her eyes searching his. "Not in the way you mean."

"What way do I mean?"

"The kind that makes it feel heavy."

He thought about her words, about the way she always seemed to lighten the weight he carried without even trying.

"You make it look easy," he said.

Her smile was faint but genuine.  

Sol felt something shift in his chest, something he hadn't let himself feel in a long time. He didn't say anything, but when Wren's hand brushed against his, he didn't pull away.

The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't empty. It was full of all the things they didn't need to say, the things that hung in the air like the glow of fireflies or the flutter of a kite against the wind.

And for the first time, Sol thought maybe—just maybe—this was something worth holding onto.