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Chapter 1: The Girl at Bus Stop 27

It always rained on Tuesdays.

Not the stormy kind of rain that demanded attention—but the quiet kind. A gentle, persistent drizzle that blurred the windows, soaked the sidewalks, and made the whole city feel like it was half-asleep. Zayne Liu had come to expect it. He counted on it, actually. There was something oddly comforting in the predictability of rain, like the city was mourning something it couldn’t name—and maybe, so was he.

He sat near the back of the 9:10 p.m. bus every Tuesday, headphones in, hoodie up, staring out the window as neon signs and headlights streaked through the wet glass. He didn’t mind the silence. It was easier than conversation. Safer.

His job at the auto garage ended around eight-thirty. He could walk home in twenty minutes, but he took the long route—waited for this specific bus—because of her.

Bus Stop 27.

She was always there before him. Standing beneath the flickering streetlamp, holding a red umbrella in one hand and a small black notebook in the other. She never looked at the bus. Never even turned her head. She’d just stare off down the road, as if she were waiting for someone who was always late. Or never coming.

Zayne didn’t know her name. Not yet. But she’d been appearing at that same stop for eight Tuesdays in a row. Same umbrella. Same spot. Same expression—calm, unreadable, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

At first, he’d just noticed her out of habit, like how you notice a particular crack in the pavement or a familiar graffiti tag. But week by week, he started watching longer. He’d look up from his music when the bus slowed, just to catch a glimpse of her through the rain.

Tonight was no different.

The bus hissed to a stop. The doors opened. No one got on.

Zayne’s eyes found her immediately. She was there again, her red umbrella casting a faint reflection in the puddles around her boots. Her long black coat fluttered slightly in the wind. And even from this distance, he could see that her fingers were still scribbling something into her notebook.

What was she writing?

What was she waiting for?

Before he could stop himself, Zayne pulled his hood down, took one earbud out, and leaned closer to the window.

She glanced up.

Just for a second. Just long enough to meet his gaze through the misted glass. Her eyes were a deep, quiet kind of brown—like dusk over a lake. And then the moment was gone. She looked away. The bus pulled forward.

Zayne leaned back, heart doing something it hadn’t done in a long time.

Why did she finally look at him tonight?

He spent the rest of the ride wondering if he should have gotten off. Wondering if he should next time. Wondering if maybe… this wasn’t just a coincidence anymore.

When the bus stopped in front of his apartment building, he hesitated before stepping off. The rain tapped rhythmically on the metal roof of the bus shelter. Everything smelled like wet concrete and the faint scent of rain-soaked lilies from the flower stall across the street.

He tilted his head back and let a few drops hit his face.

Zayne Liu didn’t believe in fate. He didn’t believe in signs.

But something about that girl at Bus Stop 27 was beginning to feel like both.

And deep down, where old feelings still lingered like old scars—he knew the rain wasn’t the only thing returning every Tuesday night.

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Chapter 2: Echoes in the Rain

The next Tuesday, the rain came earlier.

It started in the late afternoon—light at first, then heavier, turning the city into a watercolor painting of smeared lights and reflections. Zayne stood beneath the garage’s awning, arms crossed, staring at the sky as thunder growled in the distance.

“Storm’s worse than last week,” his co-worker Eli said, tossing Zayne a towel to dry his hands. “You taking the bus again?”

Zayne nodded.

Eli hesitated, eyes narrowing. “You always take the long route on Tuesdays. What’s out there?”

Zayne shrugged. “Just... quiet.”

Eli didn’t press. He never did. But the look lingered.

By 9:07 p.m., Zayne was sitting in the same seat, hood up, condensation fogging the bus windows. He hadn’t meant to get obsessed. It had started with simple curiosity. But now? Now, he didn’t know. There was something about her that tugged at the frayed edges of his memory. Like she reminded him of someone. Or somewhere. Or something he once promised and forgot.

As the bus neared Stop 27, his heart kicked up, uninvited.

There she was.

Same red umbrella. Same black coat. But this time—her notebook was gone. And she was looking at the bus before it even slowed.

Their eyes met again.

Only this time, she smiled.

It was small. Barely there. But Zayne felt it like a warm ripple beneath his skin, like an echo of a song he hadn’t heard in years.

The bus doors opened with a hiss. For a moment, he thought—maybe tonight’s the night. Maybe she’ll step on.

She didn’t.

But just before the doors closed, she lifted her hand and tapped two fingers against her umbrella. Then pointed at him.

Zayne blinked. The doors shut.

“What was that?” he muttered aloud.

When he reached his stop, the rain was pouring harder. He walked home without his umbrella, barely noticing the cold. That night, he couldn’t sleep. The image of her stayed with him: standing in the rain, not sad, not waiting—but watching. And that gesture. Two fingers. A point. A silent message?

He pulled out his sketchpad. He hadn’t drawn in months—years, really. But his fingers moved before he could stop them. The outline of a girl, a red umbrella, shadows of rain, and city lights behind her. She looked like she belonged to another world.

The next morning, Zayne dug through an old drawer looking for something—anything—that might explain the strange sense of familiarity.

In a shoebox beneath his bed, he found it.

An old photograph.

Two kids, around eleven, sitting on a bus bench under a single red umbrella. The girl had a bandage on her knee and a black notebook in her lap. Zayne’s younger self was beside her, holding a juice box and grinning like he didn’t know the world could hurt yet.

The girl had her head tilted toward him, smiling.

Zayne sat down, hard.

He remembered her.

Barely. But it was enough. The girl from that summer camp trip. The one who disappeared after the storm. Mira.

Her name was Mira.

And now she was standing at the same bus stop, ten years later. Same umbrella. Same calm smile. Same rain.

Why hadn’t he recognized her before?

Maybe because people change. Or maybe... because she hadn’t.

Zayne stared at the photo, heart pounding.

Why was she back now? And why did it feel like she had never left?

The rain tapped against the window like a ticking clock.

Something was coming. He could feel it.

And next Tuesday, he wouldn’t just watch from behind the glass.

He would get off the bus.

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Chapter 3: The Stop Between Then and Now

Tuesday came faster than expected.

All week, Zayne walked through his days like someone out of sync with time—his mind circling the photo, the umbrella, the bus stop, and the way Mira had pointed at him like she already knew who he was. Like she was waiting for him to remember.

She had barely changed. Her face was older, sure, but her expression... it was the same. That soft, almost dreamy calm that felt out of place in a city that never stopped rushing.

Zayne hadn’t said anything to Eli. He hadn’t told anyone. Some truths didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be real. They lived in the silence, in the rain, in the seconds between heartbeats.

When he boarded the bus that night, he didn’t sit.

He stood by the back doors, hands tucked into his coat pockets, body swaying slightly with the rhythm of the road. The city outside was a blur of headlights and soaked sidewalks. His reflection in the glass looked unfamiliar—older, harder, but somehow... lighter.

Stop 24. Stop 25. Stop 26.

And then—

The bus slowed.

He saw her before the stop sign came into view. She was already standing there, red umbrella open, face tilted toward the sky. The rain danced in soft sheets around her, and for a second, Zayne felt like he was watching a memory in motion—something pulled from a dream he never wanted to wake from.

The doors opened with a hiss.

He stepped off.

The rain greeted him instantly, cold and alive, soaking into his collar. He blinked the water from his lashes and took a breath. It smelled like pavement and petrichor and something strangely familiar.

She looked at him, unsurprised.

“You remembered,” she said.

Her voice was just like he remembered—soft, like a whisper wrapped in velvet.

“I think so,” he replied. “Summer camp. The juice box. You got hurt climbing the fence.”

“You tried to fix my knee with a packet of ketchup,” she smiled, almost laughing. “I still have the scar.”

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Zayne asked, stepping closer. The umbrella covered them both now, sheltering them in their own little world beneath the storm.

“I wanted to see if you'd remember on your own,” Mira said. “Sometimes the heart remembers before the mind does.”

He looked at her closely. “What are you doing here, Mira? Why now?”

Her smile faded, just slightly.

“I come here every Tuesday,” she said, eyes drifting to the wet pavement. “Ever since last year.”

“Waiting for something?” he asked.

“For someone,” she replied. “I thought it might be you. But I wasn’t sure until last week.”

Zayne’s heart beat unevenly. The rain seemed to quiet around them, even though it hadn’t stopped.

“But why this bus stop?” he asked.

She looked at him then—really looked at him—and for the first time, he saw the weight in her eyes. Like she’d been carrying a storm longer than he knew.

“Because this is where I last saw my brother,” she said. “He never came home. The night he disappeared... it was raining. Just like this.”

Zayne froze.

“Mira, I... I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “I thought maybe if I kept coming here, I’d find a piece of him. Or maybe... someone who remembered him. Someone who could give me closure. And then you came.”

Zayne swallowed. “I didn’t know your brother. I mean—maybe I did, but...”

She took his hand, gently.

“You were there, Zayne. That night. You just don’t remember it yet.”

The rain picked up again, louder now, like the sky was holding its breath.

Zayne stared at her, the world shifting beneath his feet.

“What do you mean?”

Mira’s fingers tightened around his. “Next Tuesday. Come back. I’ll tell you everything.”

Then, without another word, she let go and stepped back into the rain.

The bus pulled away behind him.

Zayne stood at Stop 27, alone now, his heart pounding, the sound of the rain swallowing every question he didn’t know how to ask.

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