Like a Raindrop

Edna no longer knew what was real and what wasn’t.
The rain outside her window might’ve been minutes old or decades; she had no concept of today or tomorrow, no thread to tie one moment to the next. She drifted as loosely as the raindrops sliding down the glass — here for a second, gone the next.

And in that drifting, she slipped back into the diner.

This time, it felt warmer than ever. The lights were soft, glowing like memories polished smooth by years of longing. The world outside the windows was nothing but darkness and rain — a quiet void where reality couldn’t reach her.

Henry sat across from her again, smiling the way she always wished he would: gently, with a kind of softened gratitude that had never quite existed in their real life. His shoulders relaxed, his eyes warm, his voice calm as he raised his glass toward her.

“To us,” he said softly.

Edna lifted her cocktail — something sweet and amber — and their glasses touched with a soft chime that felt like a moment suspended in time. No arguments, no disappointments, no old wounds hidden under daily routines. Just two seniors sharing a quiet miracle of peace.

She laughed, unexpectedly, the sound light and girlish. “Imagine us, Henry,” she said, shaking her head. “Having cocktails in a diner at our age.”

He winked. “Better late than never.”

The jukebox played a slow tune behind them — something familiar, though she couldn’t place the decade. Maybe the sixties. Maybe the forties. Maybe it wasn’t from any decade at all.

For a few moments, they simply sat together. Edna watched the way his hand wrapped easily around the glass, the way his shoulders rose in a comfortable breath, the way he looked at her — really looked, with nothing hidden or withheld.

She felt warm.
Safe.
Home.

But beneath that warmth, in the quiet pit of her stomach, something twisted gently.

It wasn’t real — this place, this Henry, this perfect moment.

She knew that.

This was the Henry she’d wanted, not the one she’d lived with. This was the healing they never reached, the forgiveness they never shared. This was a night that had no date, a memory that belonged to no year.

“Henry,” she whispered, fingers trembling around her glass. “Is this… is this really happening?”

His smile faltered for the first time. Just a flicker — a small shadow crossing his features like a cloud drifting over the sun.

“Does it matter?” he asked softly.

Edna looked around the diner — at the glowing lights, the warm air, the faceless waitress pouring coffee behind the counter. Everything was too soft, too clean, too gentle.

It was beautiful.
And it was false.

“I wish it were real,” she said, her voice cracking.

Henry reached across the table, his hand warm as it covered hers. “It feels real, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. A tear slipped down her cheek.

“It does,” she whispered. “But I know it’s not.”

He didn’t deny it. He simply squeezed her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles with a tenderness that broke her heart all over again.

“You’re here,” he said. “I’m here. For now, that’s enough.”

She closed her eyes, letting the moment wash over her like the rain she couldn’t escape. For a heartbeat — or a lifetime — she allowed herself to believe in this soft, impossible happiness.

When she opened her eyes again, Henry was still there, smiling that gentle smile.

The rain outside the diner windows fell in steady, silver sheets, blurring everything beyond.

And Edna stayed — suspended in a moment that didn’t exist, clinging to a man who wasn’t living, sharing a joy that had never happened.

A fragile happiness, drifting like a raindrop.