"The Light Beneath the Rain"

It was one of those Thursdays that just didn't quite feel like itself from the start. The kind where the sky stayed the color of wet concrete, and the world just sort of limped along as if it had something heavy on its mind.

Mira walked home with her hood on and her mind behind her like ghosts. The city had blurred under the rain—lights blurred like watercolors, people reduced to umbrella shapes. She liked walking in the rain. No one examined you too closely. And sometimes, it made the ache in her chest less noticeable.

She had not meant to be late for the gallery, but it took longer to finish cleaning up after the student show than she thought. Two years she had labored there—part-time work schedule, full-time dreams. She had always believed that art could repair anything. Maybe it did. On some days she wasn't sure though.

Tonight, rain was stronger, as if the rain had to be heard. Her apartment was near, three more blocks from where she stood. But on the second, something compelled her to stop.

A small bookstore—"The Hollow Lantern"—nested between a vacant bakery and a closed tailor shop. Mira had not seen it before. No large sign, just faded gold letters on the glass and one lantern flickering with a light inside, its flame winking as if it had a life of its own.

Drawn by something she could not name, she stepped inside. A chime of soft metal sounded overhead. Soft heat wrapped about her—an old memory sensation—and the scent of paper, cedar, and a floral perfume.

The room was still, aside from the rain against the panes and the low thrumming of an ancient record player in a corner. The walls were lined with books, but not neatly. They stood stacked like dialogue, some leaning, some stacked on chairs to be tall. There was a cat sprawled on the counter, her drowsy amber eyes tracking her.

Behind the desk sat an older woman with untamed grey curls and hands that looked as though they had turned many pages. She smiled up at Mira as if she'd been expecting her.

"Welcome," she said simply. "Storm brought you in?"

Mira hesitated. "I suppose so. I didn't even know this existed."

The woman nodded. "We have a way of showing up when someone needs us.".

Mira smiled politely, not sure what to say, and stepped deeper into the shop. Something was wrong with the books—they didn't have titles on the outside. Just symbols. She took one at random and opened it.

They were publishing a book she'd written when she was thirteen. The same clumsy wording. The same character names. The same story, word for word.

Her hands trembled as she turned the page. It continued—stories she'd written and forgotten. Stories she'd never shared. One she'd torn to pieces and thrown away.

She put it back, gingerly.

The next book she opened was full of memories she hadn't laid eyes on in years. Her father singing off-key in the kitchen. The way her mother kissed the crown of her head before school. Laughing in the rain with her best friend in seventh grade.

They weren't stories—they were pieces of her soul, held in ink.

She looked over to the woman behind the desk, who smiled in understanding at her. "Books here don't tell a story," she said. "They tell yours. Every version. Even the ones you've lost. Especially those."

Mira's throat tightened.

"Why?" she asked.

"Sometimes we forget who we are," the woman said, closing the book she'd been reading. "This place reminds us.".

Outside, the rain slowed down. Mira walked a little ways farther, full of heart, and made her way to the door.

"Will I be able to find this place again?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

The woman smiled. "Only if you need to."

Mira exited outdoors. The air was different—clear, like the world had washed its face. She jammed her hands into her coat pockets, heart still ringing with forgotten tales, and began walking.

And though the night was still grey, she promised the lantern light followed her, glowing gently just beneath the rain.