The wind carried the faint scent of rain as Sol reached their spot by the river. The air was still, the kind of quiet that hummed with a tension just out of reach. He leaned against the railing, his breath misting in the cold. She wasn't there yet, and for the first time, he wondered if she might not show up.

But then, like always, she appeared. Wren stepped out of the shadows, her movements fluid, almost too light to disturb the earth beneath her feet. She was wearing a scarf tonight, its ends trailing like ribbons in the breeze.

"Miss me?" she asked, a teasing smile curving her lips.

"You're late," he replied, though his voice lacked the edge to make it a real complaint.

"Had to make it dramatic." She stopped beside him, her fingers brushing the railing. "Can't have you getting too comfortable."

He rolled his eyes, but there was a softness to the gesture, an ease that had grown between them over the past few weeks.

Wren reached into her bag and pulled out two small candles, their wax chipped and uneven. "Here," she said, handing one to him.

"What's this for?"

"A tradition," she said, lighting hers with a match. The flame flickered, its glow small but steady. "Think of something you want to let go of. Then let the candle burn it away."

He stared at the candle in his hand, its surface cool and smooth. "And what if I don't want to let go?"

Her eyes softened, a rare vulnerability slipping through her usual playfulness. "Then you hold onto it. But not too tightly."

He lit his candle, watching the flame dance in the breeze. The act felt almost ceremonial, like they were marking something neither of them could name.

"What are you letting go of?" he asked after a while.

She tilted her head, her gaze fixed on the water. "Maybe the question isn't what. Maybe it's who."

Her words lingered in the air, heavy with a weight he didn't fully understand.

✩

The next time they met, Wren brought chalk.

"For a sidewalk that doesn't exist," she said, handing him a piece.

They crouched on the concrete path by the river, their fingers smudged with colors as they drew patterns that spiraled and stretched in every direction.

"Art therapy," Wren said, dragging her chalk in long, looping strokes.

"You think this is going to fix me?" Sol asked, his tone light but edged with something he couldn't quite name.

"Fix you?" She laughed, the sound warm but tinged with something bittersweet. "No one's broken, Sol. Just... a little bent, maybe."

He paused, his chalk hovering above the concrete. "And you?"

Her smile faltered, just for a second. "I'm a work in progress."

They sat in silence for a while after that, their chalk dust mingling on the ground like the pieces of themselves they were too afraid to show.

✩

As the days stretched on, Sol began to notice things he hadn't before. The way Wren's presence seemed to shift the air around her, like she carried a piece of the night with her wherever she went. The way she always seemed to know exactly what to say to pull him out of his own head, even when he didn't want to be pulled.

But there were gaps, too—moments when she would fade, her gaze distant, as though she were listening to a song he couldn't hear. And when he asked about her life, her past, she would deflect with a joke or a story so vague it felt like smoke in his hands.

It didn't matter, he told himself. She was here, and that was enough.

✩

On the last day of autumn, Wren suggested something different.

"Let's go somewhere new," she said, her voice bright but her eyes shadowed.

"New how?"

"You'll see."

They ended up at an abandoned lot, its edges overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. The air was crisp, the sky streaked with the warm colors of a dying sunset.

Wren led him to the center of the lot, where a lone swing set stood, its metal frame rusted but sturdy. She sat on one of the swings, her hands wrapped around the chains.

"Ever feel like you're stuck between places?" she asked, her voice quiet.

"Like you don't belong anywhere?" he said, sitting on the swing beside her.

She nodded, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "Yeah. Like that."

He didn't know how to answer, so he just swung with her, their movements slow and deliberate, the creak of the chains filling the silence.

✩

That night, Sol decided. He couldn't keep waiting, couldn't keep circling around the truth he hadn't let himself admit.

When he met Wren by the river, his heart was pounding, his hands clammy despite the cold. She was leaning against the railing, her scarf trailing in the wind.

"Wren," he said, his voice steady but quiet.

She turned to him, her eyes searching his. "What is it?"

"I—" He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "I think I—"

But before he could finish, she smiled, a sad, knowing smile that stopped him cold.

"Sol," she said softly, her voice like the whisper of the river. "You don't have to say it."

"But—"

She stepped closer, her hand brushing his for just a moment. "Some things don't need to be spoken. You already know, don't you?"

He felt his chest tighten, a knot of emotion he couldn't untangle. "I don't understand."

Her smile faltered, and for the first time, he thought he saw fear in her eyes. "You will," she said, stepping back. "But not tonight."

And then she was gone, her figure disappearing into the shadows like a wisp of smoke.

Sol stood there for what felt like hours, his mind racing with questions he couldn't answer. When he finally turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of something on the ground where Wren had been standing—a single piece of chalk, worn down to a nub.

He picked it up, his fingers smudged with the faint residue of color. And for the first time, he wondered if she'd ever really been there at all.