But if Gabriel knows anything about his relationship with Meera, I’ll be pissed.
Noah’s silence feels like a closed door, so I take it as my cue to give him space. I walk back into the bathroom and twist off the faucet. The scent of spicy coconut and cinnamon lingers in the air—soft and warm. I close my eyes and let it settle over me.
I can still feel the memory of Noah’s body against mine. So soft. Feminine.
Curved instead of carved.
And the tattoo—a trail of rain and tears spilling down his leg like a storm captured in motion. Could that be the storm he’s talking about? The one he said he can’t survive?
“Alex?” His voice cuts through my thoughts, fragile but clear. “Can you come here, please?”
“Coming,” I call back, turning away from the tub.
“Alex!”he shouts, louder this time. More urgent.
I hurry back into the bedroom, eyebrows drawn together as I spot the felt box now open on top of the desk. Noah is holding something in both hands—a piece of paper, maybe?
No. Not just paper.
It’s a drawing.
He passes it to me wordlessly, and I sit on the edge of the bed, taking it from him gently. For the moment, I push my anger from earlier aside.
“Is that… you?” I ask, running a finger over the image. The texture surprises me. It’s not glossy or smooth like a photograph. It’s rough. Grainy.
It’s a sketch. And a damn good one.
The boy in the drawing looks to be about four or five—all bony shoulders and spindly legs. Blond. Undernourished. Haunting. A faded pink shirt slips off one narrow shoulder, and oversized shorts droop low, cinched at the waist with a frayed string. His feet are filthy, stuffed into mismatched flip-flops—one too big, one too small, each a different color.
He looks like a child the world forgot.
“Yes,” Noah says softly, handing me another sketch.
In this one, he’s older—maybe a year or two. He’s sitting upright in bed, knees hugged to his chest. White underwear clings to his hips, loose against skin stretched too thin. His eyes are hollow, vacant, like he’s staring straight through the page. Tears streak down his gaunt cheeks.
Before I can say anything, he slips another drawing into my hand.
This one’s… different.
It’s just rain. Lines of it. Falling in every direction, filling the entire page. I tilt my head, searching for something else—a shape, a shadow,anything.
But no. It’s just the rain.
“That’s one of me too,” he says softly, tapping the center of the page.
I blink up at him. “Where?”
“Right there,” he says, pointing again. “It’s hard to see me, but I’m there… in the rain.”
My stomach tightens. I scratch the back of my head, trying to piece it all together—the boy, the sketches,this.
“Noah…” I start, my voice gentler now, thick with something I can’t name. “What happened to you?”
He sighs—not in pain, not in sadness, but almost in annoyance—and drops yet another sketch into my hand.
This one hits differently.
A tall man stands in the doorway of a child’s bedroom. Just… standing there. Watching.
