The rain came quietly at first—soft patters against the high glass windows of House Thorne's north wing—like a secret passed from cloud to earth. It was late afternoon when the sun was swallowed whole by gray skies, and the manor grew dim, every hallway steeped in a melancholy hush that only stormlight could conjure.
Caelum didn't mind the rain.
In truth, he found it oddly comforting. The kind of weather that muted the world's sharp edges and invited everything to breathe a little slower.
He stood at the window of the library-turned-parlor they had claimed as their sanctuary, watching rivulets trace down the panes like nervous fingers. The fire behind him crackled gently, casting flickering shadows on the carpet and the edges of a tea set he hadn't yet touched.
"Caelum," Elowen's voice called from across the room, soft as silk and just as easily wrinkled by worry, "You've been staring at that storm for ten minutes now."
He turned, lips quirking. "It's beautiful."
"It's dreary."
"Maybe a little." He walked over, slow and deliberate, pulling the chair beside hers a bit closer. "But you're here. So it's not so dreary after all."
Elowen blinked, visibly caught off guard. Her hands, which had been fussing with the hem of her sleeve, stilled in her lap. "That's unfair."
"What is?"
"Saying things like that when you know I'm not clever enough to reply without sounding like a fool."
Caelum smiled, watching a hint of warmth creep into her cheeks. "Who said anything about replying? You can just sit here with me and be lovely in silence."
She looked away—flustered—and Caelum felt a quiet thrill stir in his chest. These moments, strung together like delicate pearls, were the very breath of this new world for him.
Outside, thunder rumbled. The sound vibrated through the floorboards as if the sky itself were clearing its throat.
"I hated storms when I was younger," Elowen admitted suddenly, her voice hushed. "They made everything feel smaller. Trapped. I used to think the manor would crumble under the rain."
He glanced at her profile, lit gently by the firelight—soft shadows beneath her lashes, the curve of her mouth hesitant and bare.
"You don't hate them anymore?"
She shook her head, eyes fixed on the dancing flames. "I'm not sure. They still frighten me sometimes. But… they also make the world quiet. People are less cruel when it rains."
Caelum's brows furrowed. "Why?"
"Because they have to stay indoors," she replied with a wry smile, "and that means they can't follow me around the gardens whispering that I might curse the rosebushes if I touch them."
The smile faltered at the end, as if she'd surprised herself by saying it aloud. Her hands tightened around each other.
Caelum reached out without thinking, gently brushing her knuckles with his own. "You don't have to joke about things that hurt."
"I know," she whispered.
They sat like that for a long moment, the only sounds the crackling fire and the soft drumming of rain overhead.
Then: "Do you ever wonder," Elowen said slowly, "if some people were born to be alone?"
"No," Caelum said, more firmly than he meant to. "But I think some people are taught to believe they should be."
Her eyes met his. They searched his face for something—doubt, maybe. Pity. But found only earnestness.
Caelum leaned back, suddenly thoughtful. "You've been kind to me," he said. "Kinder than anyone had reason to be. But I wonder if anyone's ever truly been kind to you."
Her breath hitched.
"I don't mean it as a wound," he continued gently. "Just… an observation."
A silence hung between them, thick with unspoken truths.
Then Elowen, her voice barely above a whisper: "I think… I think maybe you are the first."
Caelum swallowed the lump forming in his throat.
"I used to sit in the garden alone," she said. "Even when it rained. I told myself I didn't mind. That I preferred the quiet. But it wasn't true. I hated it. I hated feeling invisible… or worse, feared."
He didn't speak. He just reached out and—ever so lightly—placed his hand over hers. This time, she didn't flinch. In fact, her fingers curled instinctively around his.
"I don't know why you're different," she murmured, as if confessing a sin. "But I'm glad you are."
The fire flickered. A log collapsed with a sleepy sigh of ash.
Neither of them moved for a long time. The storm outside grew more insistent, wind pressing against the glass as if to eavesdrop on the stillness they had crafted.
Later, when they had moved to the settee nearer the fireplace, Elowen rested her head lightly on Caelum's shoulder. Her hair smelled like lavender and old books. He stayed still, unsure if breathing too loudly might end the moment.
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly.
"For what?"
"For being strange. And complicated. And… afraid."
Caelum turned his head, brushing his cheek against her hair. "You don't have to apologize for being human."
Her hand found his again.
When they finally parted that night, Elowen lingered at her bedroom door. "Will you be here in the morning?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
She nodded, smiled faintly, and disappeared behind the door.
Caelum stood in the hallway for a few moments, listening to the quiet thump of her footsteps. Then he turned.
Back in his own room, sleep came quickly. But his dreams were not his own.
He stood in a world of dim light and fog, surrounded by threads of red weaving in the air like veins of fate. One thread in particular pulsed gently, leading toward the silhouette of a girl.
Elowen.
She stood across from him, her hand reaching forward.
He raised his own. Their fingertips touched, and the thread between them glowed like a heartbeat.
A voice whispered through the haze.
"Deviation expands. Proximity threshold exceeded."
Caelum jolted awake.
The notebook lay on his desk, its pages still and undisturbed… except for one.
In the center of the right-hand page, a single line now glowed faintly, as if the ink itself were breathing.
He got up, crossed the room, and leaned over it.
"Deviation expands. Proximity threshold exceeded."
The words pulsed once—like a living thing—then faded into the page, leaving no trace they'd ever been there.
Caelum stood still, heart racing, unsure if what he saw had been real or imagined.
But in the silence that followed, he knew one thing:
Whatever this world was…
It was watching.And it wasn't ready for them to grow close.
But they were going to, anyway.
No matter what the story tried to do.
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I know the story lacks drama, and don't worry I will start adding it real soon.