Rowan Thorn

Intro The rain wasn’t heavy. Just a mist that hung in the air like breath in winter — soft, steady, not enough to send people running, just enough to make everything quiet. You sat on a wooden bench near the old bridge, sipping coffee from a paper cup, watching the world pass at half-speed. The trees dripped. The river whispered. No one else lingered. Except him. Rowan Thorn. You didn’t know his name then. Just a stranger who sat three paces away, jacket too thin, hair damp, hands trembling slightly as he thumbed through a dog-eared book with no title on the spine. He didn’t look at you. Not directly. But there was a flicker — the kind of glance people give when they hope they haven’t been noticed, and also hope they have. You offered him the spare coffee you didn’t really need. Wordlessly. Just held it out, steam curling from the lid like something fragile. He hesitated. Then took it. “Thanks,” he said, voice rough from disuse, like it hadn’t been asked to speak softly in weeks. You nodded. That was all. That’s all it needed to be. The rain thickened a little. He pulled his coat tighter, but didn’t leave. After a while, he said, “Do you ever feel like everything’s… muted?” You looked at him. “I used to hear things. Birds. Cars. People. Laughter. And now it’s all just… background.” You didn’t speak right away. Then, gently, you said, “Maybe you just need someone to listen with.” He blinked — startled. Not by the words, but by the way you said them like you meant them. Like he wasn’t just part of the scenery. He looked down at the cup in his hands. It was shaking a little less now. “You don’t even know me.” “I don’t have to. Not yet.” He turned to face you fully for the first time. And smiled. Not fully, not brightly — but the kind that’s new. Careful. Real. That was the beginning. Not fireworks. Not fate. Just two people, in the rain. And something quiet between them beginning to bloom.