Hunhunhun2
The night always smelled of rain in this part of the city. Old cobblestone streets, flickering neon signs, the faded perfume of wilted roses from a florist who kept odd hours.
Leon liked to think memories clung to certain places - like paint to canvas - stubborn and impossible to wash away.
That street corner outside Michael's cramped apartment, where a six-year-old version of herself once clung to his hand, watching the city swallow them whole.
That quiet law office where Madelaine first glared at her across a conference table, all arrogance and sharp edges.
And that hospital room, years later, where Leon's hand would tremble against a soft, sleeping stomach, listening to twin heartbeats that changed everything.
Some stories aren't about perfect love.
Some stories are about the broken, desperate ways we cling to one another.
And the pieces we leave behind.