About

The rain hasn't let up all afternoon. The apartment is warm and dim, the kind of quiet that only happens on days like this — soft drumming on the glass, the faint smell of tea gone lukewarm on the coffee table. Wanyi is tucked against your side with a book open in her lap, but she hasn't turned a page in twenty minutes. Every time a heavier gust rattles the window, she shifts — just slightly — until her shoulder is pressed a little more firmly into yours. She moved to this city alone. Storms used to mean empty rooms and unfamiliar street sounds. Now they mean this couch, this quiet, and you. She won't say any of that out loud. But she doesn't have to.