A Song in the Rain

The rain came down in soft sheets, blurring the lights of the small café on the corner of the street. Emma sat at her usual table by the window, her notebook open in front of her. The words weren’t coming today, though. She stared out at the rain, her coffee growing cold beside her.

The soft chime of the bell above the door pulled her from her thoughts. A man walked in, shaking the rain from his coat. He was tall, with dark hair that was already damp and curling at the edges. His guitar case was slung over his shoulder, dripping slightly on the tile floor.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said to the barista with an apologetic grin.

He ordered a coffee and glanced around, his gaze landing on Emma. She quickly looked down at her notebook, hoping he hadn’t noticed her staring.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, his voice warm and smooth.

Emma looked up, startled. He gestured to the empty chair across from her.

“Uh, sure,” she said, closing her notebook.

“Thanks.” He set his guitar case down gently and slid into the chair. “It’s packed tonight.”

Emma glanced around. The café was far from crowded, but she didn’t point that out.

“You play?” she asked, nodding toward his guitar.

“Yeah,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Just small gigs, nothing big. It’s more of a passion than a career.”

“What kind of music?”

“Mostly folk. A little blues,” he said. “I like songs that tell stories.”

Emma smiled faintly. “Me too. I’m a writer. Or at least I’m trying to be.”

“A writer?” His eyes lit up. “What kind of stories?”

“Whatever comes to me,” she said with a shrug. “Lately, though, not much has.”

“Writer’s block?”

“Something like that.”

He leaned back in his chair, studying her for a moment. “Sometimes when I’m stuck on a song, I just play for the sake of playing. No expectations. It helps.”

“Does it?”

“Most of the time,” he said with a grin. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Before she could protest, he opened his guitar case and pulled out the instrument. The hum of conversation in the café dimmed as he tuned the strings and began to play.

The melody was simple, soft, and full of emotion. Emma found herself captivated, the rain outside blending with the music. As he played, something inside her stirred, a spark she hadn’t felt in months.

When he finished, the café erupted into quiet applause. He looked at Emma, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Well?” he asked.

“It was… beautiful,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Good,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Now, go write.”

Emma blinked, surprised, and then laughed. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he said, packing up his guitar. “And maybe next time, I’ll hear one of your stories.”

As he left, Emma opened her notebook. The words came easily now, flowing like the rain outside.