She never told them why she liked to go out in the rain.

It fell on the city, shimmering points of water, a sheer curtain that warped the buildings in a strange way and drew quiet, pattering applause from the pavement as it hit.

Most of the last of the sunlight had been hidden away in the clouds, shrouded in hazy white like a bride on her wedding day. To the east, the storm was thicker, darker, with faint thunder and distant streaks of lightning. To the west, it was broken in a smooth grey edge, silhouetting the jagged metal-and-glass skyline of the city against a strip of rose-gold sunset.

The bridge over the river was slick with rainwater, glowing a soft orange in the clash of cloud and clear sky. Her umbrella hummed with the raindrops that struck it, keeping her dry save for what the breeze sprinkled on her bare arms and knees.

She stopped at the lamppost. It was copper, green with age and twice as tall as she was, set just beyond the stone railing. The glass at the top was dark; it'd come on any minute now, with the fall of dusk.

Not caring that it was wet, she leaned her forearms on the railing and looked out at that strip of fading sunlight, watching it grow steadily wider as the storm retreated. He usually came right near the end of a storm like this, when the rain was tapering off and the fog started to settle over the water. Any minute now, she thought, tapping the toe of her rainboot on the paved sidewalk.

"Ah. I was wondering when you'd have enough sense to trade out those ridiculous sandals for something more practical."

She smiled, twirling her umbrella once, not moving. A moment later, he leaned beside her, watching the river rather than the sunset. He always did that, his dark eyes searching as he regarded the water, like someone trying to find change in an old friend not seen in years.

"The rains were harsh today," she said quietly, casting him a sidelong look, lingering on his face. He looked human, save for his skin. It was smooth and reflective like calm water, the color of coffee when mixed with a generous amount of cream, misting where it met a mop of unkempt silver-brown hair. His whole form played tricks on her eyes, the way it did that in places, nearly see-through, like a ghost. That was what she called him. Ghost. He'd never told her his real name, if he had one.

"The sky was weeping," Ghost replied with equal tone, closing his eyes as a breeze lifted from the river and passed over them, tugging at her umbrella. His figure let off trails of fog that looked like smoke, then came into focus again when the air calmed. "You are sad today, little one. What happened?"

She closed her eyes for a few seconds, breathing the sweet, wet smell of rain-soaked concrete and the quenched soil of the riverbank, not wanting to look at him. He asked that question every time, since the day she'd first come, that same look of gentle concern on his face, skin wrinkling slightly around his eyes. His eyes...she hated and loved the way they lingered, searching her. No one did that, these days. No one cared enough to. It was a small kindness, one she was certain Ghost didn't realize he imparted. But it mattered. It mattered that someone looked, that someone listened, and observed enough to ask such a question.

Her family had never done that. They still didn't.

Giving Ghost a small smile, she shook her head and glanced at her hands. "It doesn't matter," she said, lifting her head, hair falling from her shoulders and onto her back. "Look at the sky, Ghost. Isn't it lovely?"

He did, and the light caught in his eyes, exposing soft, dark browns and inkier colors that faded among them. He was pleasant to look at in the way a painting was: flawed in places, certainly, where the pale scars bridged his long nose and stretched beneath the curve of his cheekbones, and where his ears stuck out perhaps a bit too much; but beautiful all the same, in the sharp curves of his jaw and mouth, the way his hair fell over his forehead in waves that fought to be curls in the damp, storm-tainted air. Not young, not elderly. Ghost looked rather irritatingly timeless.

Those eyes of his saddened, looking at the sky, and slipped down over the horizon to the river again, a frown pulling at the edges his mouth. He did that every time she asked him to look at the sky. She'd once asked him why. He hadn't answered her.

"I must go again, soon," he whispered, breath steaming faintly. The air was getting cooler, the sunset fading like a washed canvas. Shadows had sprouted and grown in the corners and dips of the bridge, the last inkling of sunlight reflecting off mirrors made of puddles in their midst. "The rain calls me back."

Something pulled in her chest, painful. She didn't want him to go. She never did. His company warmed something that had grown cold within her in the last few years, and she craved to keep it. "I know," she replied, letting the edge of her umbrella rest on her back. The rain was barely falling any longer; most of the humidity had taken the form of fog, drifting over the ever-darkening river in slow waves. "When will I see you again?"

Ghost's half-smile was bittersweet. He stood up straight and stuck his hands in his pockets. He wore strange clothes, a pale long-sleeved shirt that exposed his collarbone, a navy coat that fell to his knees, unbuttoned and loosely fitting, and trousers that were all straight lines and dark greys. Bare feet, too, despite his earlier comment about her own shoes. Mismatched, like flowers in a fireplace. "So long as the rain continues to fall, little one, I will be here."

She smiled slightly at his words. The same thing he always said. As he began to fade at the edges, drifting into the fog that rose around them, he smiled in return. Then he was gone, a breath on the wind. Her smile wilted, and her eyes fell shut, two solitary tears slipping down her cheeks.

The lamp flickered to life above her, casting a halo of light in the fog. Turning away, she began the stroll home to the melody of far-off thunder.

Ghost would come again, she knew, and she'd be right here to meet him. So long as the rains fell.