The sky cracked open over Lagos like a heart too tired of holding pain. Rain fell in sheets—fierce, unpredictable, like memories he hadn't asked for. Tolu sat alone in his car, engine off, parked just outside a quiet bookstore in Yaba. His windshield wipers ticked in lazy rhythm, fighting to keep the view clear. But his mind was the foggiest thing of all.
Today marked one year since the divorce. One year since he signed away a future he once prayed for. One year since silence became his most loyal companion.
He hadn't planned on going anywhere, certainly not a bookstore. But grief had strange legs—walking you into places your logic would never dare. Tolu simply wanted to sit, maybe breathe, maybe remember. Or maybe just exist without having to answer to the weight on his chest.
And then, through the rain, he saw her.
She was lightning in slow motion—a woman in a deep blue dress, soaked from head to toe, laughing as the heavens drenched her like a secret unveiled. Her hair was a crown of wild coils, unbothered by the downpour. Her stride, bold. Untamed. Beautiful.
Tolu couldn't look away.
She darted under the bookstore canopy, shaking water from her arms like a bird shrugging off sky. There was no urgency in her movements, just presence. A kind of peace that disturbed his numbness.
He followed.
He told himself he just needed a book, a distraction, a reason to stop watching her from behind glass. But his feet knew the truth: something had shifted. Something had reached into his quiet and cracked it open.
Inside, the scent of paper and wood welcomed him. The lights hummed softly overhead. And there she was—dripping on the bookstore tiles like she owned the weather. She ran her fingers along the poetry shelf, pausing occasionally, lips silently mouthing the titles. Tolu tried not to stare. He failed.
She turned, catching his gaze. Her smile curved gently. Not flirtatious. Not even amused. Just... aware.
"You ever read Rumi in the rain?" she asked, nodding toward the book in his hand.
"I haven't read Rumi at all," he admitted.
"Then maybe today's a good day to start."
It wasn't just her words. It was her voice. Smooth, like warm zobo on a cold evening. She didn't sound like Lagos. She sounded like a slow song you'd forgotten you loved.
Tolu smiled—something real, something rare. The kind of smile that sits in your chest long after the lips close.
He didn't know her name.
He didn't know what the universe had planned.
But in that moment, surrounded by books and thunder, he realized something:
Some stories don't begin with introductions.Some begin with storms.