Morning light had barely reached my tiny Portland apartment when

The sun was dipping low below the Portland horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of violet and orange as I finally flipped the "Open" sign on the front door to "Closed."

The bell chimed its quiet, familiar note, signaling the end of another long, satisfying day. The café was spotless, the espresso machine was purged and gleaming, and the lingering scent of roasted coffee beans hung comfortably in the air.

Rebecca sat at the front table, her legs curled up beneath her, reading a battered paperback novel while the evening shadows stretched across the wooden floorboards.

"You know," she said without looking up from her book, "your dad would have really liked what you've done with the place."

I paused, a dish towel clutched in my hand, feeling a warm, familiar pang in my chest. For a long time, mentioning Frank had felt like touching an open wound—sharp, stinging, and impossible to ignore. But now, standing here in a café that finally felt like my own, his memory didn't feel like a regret anymore. It felt like a foundation.

"Yeah," I murmured, walking over and sitting down in the chair opposite her. "I think he would have."

Rebecca closed her book, marking the page with a torn strip of paper, and looked across the table at me. Her amber eyes were clear, steady, and full of an unshakeable strength.

"My truck is parked outside," she said softly. "I'm heading back down to the farm tomorrow morning."

A quiet stillness settled over the room. Even though we both knew this visit was temporary—that her life was in California and mine was right here in Portland—the thought of her leaving still brought a heavy, hollow ache to my ribs.

"I'll miss you," I admitted honestly, not bothering to hide behind sarcasm or casual indifference.

"I'll miss you too, Logan," she replied, her voice dropping into a gentle, intimate register. "But you know where to find me. And hey—if you ever need to escape the coffee grind, you've got a standing invitation to harvest tomatoes in Mendocino."

"Only if the tomatoes come with a personal security detail," I joked, a small smile playing on my lips.

Rebecca laughed, shaking her head. "Deal."

Later that evening, after we locked up the café and shared a quiet dinner of leftover pasta in my apartment, we sat out on the small fire escape just as the stars began to blink through the Portland night sky. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the fresh scent of spring rain and blossoming trees.

I looked down at the street below—the same street where I had found her six months ago, huddled on a bench in the pouring rain, looking like she had nowhere left to go. Life was unpredictable, messy, and entirely out of our control. It threw curveballs when you least expected them, tore open old wounds, and dragged you through storms you never thought you'd survive.

But as I sat there in the quiet night air, shoulder-to-shoulder with someone who had walked through that exact same storm and found her way to the other side, I realized something important.

You don't need a map to figure out the future. You just need to keep moving forward, stay open to the unexpected, and never, ever ignore someone standing out in the rain.