A SONG FOR THE BROKEN

Chapter 1: The Meeting

The rain was soft that afternoon, not a downpour but enough to make the pavement glisten like polished stone. Emilia stood beneath the awning of Café Miro, her fingers curled around a paper cup, watching the city blur through the drizzle. She always came here after her shifts at the bookstore-half out of habit, half out of hope that the silence might finally start to feel like peace.

Then he appeared.

She noticed him because he didn't carry an umbrella. He just stood there across the street, soaked, staring at the chalkboard sign that said LIVE MUSIC – FRIDAYS AT SEVEN. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his black hoodie clung to his frame. But his eyes-that's what stayed with her. They were distant, but not empty. Like someone who had once known love and now only knew the echo of it.

When he finally crossed the street, Emilia stepped aside instinctively, not wanting to seem in the way. But he stopped at the door, shook off the rain like a stray dog, and met her eyes for a brief moment.

"You been inside?" he asked.

His voice was rough, like it didn't get much use.

"Yeah," she said. "It's quiet. Good coffee. Warm."

He nodded. "Sounds perfect."

She didn't know why she followed him in, just that something about him felt familiar in a way she couldn't explain. Maybe it was the way he didn't pretend to smile. Maybe it was how the world seemed to hush around him.

They sat at separate tables at first, but the universe didn't let that last long. The café was nearly empty except for a guitarist warming up in the corner and a barista who looked like she wanted her shift to end. The boy glanced over at Emilia again. She offered a small smile. He didn't return it, but he moved to her table.

"Mind if I sit?"

"Sure," she said.

"I'm Leo."

"Emilia."

They talked like people who had nothing to lose. About books, broken things, and music that made you cry for no reason. Leo told her he used to play piano, but stopped. She didn't ask why.

When the guitarist started strumming something low and aching, Leo closed his eyes. Emilia watched him instead of the music.

That night, she walked home with his number in her pocket and a strange weight in her chest. Not joy. Not fear. Something in between-like hope holding hands with heartbreak.

She didn't know then, of course, how deeply he'd change her life. How much of her heart would belong to him. And how, in the end, he would take pieces of her with him when he left.