The morning after the storm was painted in shades of gray. Clouds still hovered low, but the rain had ceased, and the streets glistened under the cautious light of dawn. Amara woke early, the memory of Leo etched sharply into her mind. His eyes, his voice, the quiet intensity of his presence—it lingered like a forgotten melody.
She told herself it was nothing. Just a chance meeting. A conversation born of loneliness and shared sadness. Yet, her heart betrayed her, beating a little faster as she prepared for the day.
Downstairs at the café, she ordered a cappuccino and claimed the same corner table. The seat across from her remained empty. Each passing minute scratched at her nerves like a match against stone.
By the time Leo walked through the door, twenty minutes late and visibly winded, Amara had nearly convinced herself he wasn't coming.
"Sorry," he said, brushing rain from his coat. "There was…something I had to take care of."
She offered him a wary smile. "You're lucky I didn't leave."
"I wouldn't have blamed you if you did."
But she didn't. Instead, they fell into conversation again. Today, he was more guarded. He asked about her music, her family, her dreams. But whenever she tried to ask about his past, he deflected—like a man dodging invisible blades.
"Why Verona?" she asked.
Leo looked out the window. "It's a city that remembers its lovers."
"That's a romantic reason."
He smiled, but there was no joy in it. "Or a tragic one."
Amara studied him. The shadows under his eyes were deeper today, as though he hadn't slept. His fingers fidgeted with the handle of his mug. Something about him felt…tense.
"You don't trust me," she said.
Leo looked at her sharply. "I barely know you."
"That's not what I mean. You don't trust anyone."
He looked down, silent.
"I get it," she said after a pause. "Grief changes people."
"Grief," he repeated, almost bitterly. "Yes. That's one word for it."
She wanted to ask more, but the barrier was clear. So she changed the subject, told him about the small concert hall she'd visited the day before, how the violinist reminded her of her sister, how Lily used to say every note was a letter from the soul.
Leo listened. And finally, he spoke again—softly.
"My brother used to play," he said. "Cello. He was…better than anyone I knew."
"Was?" she asked carefully.
Leo's jaw tightened. "He died. A long time ago. Car bomb."
Amara blinked. "That's…awful. I'm so sorry."
Leo nodded, but the look in his eyes said there was more. Much more.
As the morning waned, he glanced at the time and stood suddenly. "I have to go."
"Will you meet me again?"
"Tomorrow," he said, not quite smiling. "Same time."
He left before she could ask anything else.
Amara sat alone, staring at the spot where he had just been. Her thoughts tangled. Who was Leo, really? His pain was real—she could feel it—but his words…they danced around something hidden.
She pulled out her phone and googled him. "Leo Verona." "Leo writer." "Leo cello brother bomb." Nothing relevant came up.
And yet, she knew he wasn't lying. Not about the pain, at least.
Later that afternoon, she wandered through the side streets, stopping at a bookstore. The bell over the door jingled as she entered, the smell of old paper welcoming her.
As she browsed, a voice behind her said, "You should be careful who you talk to."
Amara turned. A woman, maybe in her early thirties, stood there. Blonde, sharp-eyed, wearing a trench coat too clean for the rainy city. She didn't smile.
"Excuse me?" Amara asked.
"You don't know him," the woman said.
Amara narrowed her eyes. "Who?"
"Leo. Whatever name he gave you."
A chill skittered down her spine. "I think you're mistaken."
The woman stepped closer. "I'm not. Listen to me—Leo is dangerous. And if you don't believe me, you'll find out the hard way."
"Who are you?"
But the woman was already walking away.
Amara stood frozen, heart pounding, the soft jazz playing in the background now sounding oddly sinister. Who was that woman? And how did she know about Leo?