Chapter 4 — THE ARCHITECT'S SMILE
Morning sunlight spilled through the studio windows of Rivers Design & Architecture, catching on rolls of blueprints and models of glass towers. The hum of Elaris outside was distant muted by the height of the building, the soft whir of rain still fading on the glass panes.
Adrian Vale, known to everyone here as Adrian Rivers, stood over a drafting table, pencil in hand, half-lost in thought.
He had built so many facades in his life, both literal and emotional, but none had unsettled him quite like the quiet girl by the bridge.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her, the soft outline of her face beneath the umbrella, the way her eyes had spoken entire sentences without a single word.
There had been many people in Adrian’s world who wanted his attention, his approval, his signature. Cathy hadn’t wanted anything.
And that was what drew him most.
“Adrian,” a voice interrupted, pulling him from his thoughts.
He turned to see Marcus Hale, his project partner and the only person who knew part of the truth — that Rivers wasn’t his real name.
“You’re distracted,” Marcus said, crossing his arms. “You’ve redrawn that curve three times.”
Adrian looked down at the plan — the outline of the Glass Bridge redevelopment project. A coincidence. Or maybe not. “I met someone,” he said finally.
Marcus smirked. “That explains it. What’s she like?”
Adrian paused, then said quietly, “She doesn’t speak.”
Marcus blinked. “Doesn’t…?”
“She’s mute,” Adrian clarified. “But she has this way of communicating that makes silence feel… peaceful.”
Marcus chuckled softly. “You always did fall for puzzles. Just make sure you don’t break this one.”
Adrian smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not planning to.”
That evening, Wynn’s Blossoms smelled of jasmine and rain. Cathy was refilling vases when the chime above the door rang softly.
When she turned, her breath caught.
It was him — Adrian. He stood by the entrance, hair slightly damp, holding a small bouquet wrapped in pale blue paper.
“Hi,” he said, almost shyly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”
Cathy smiled, her hands still damp from the flowers.
He stepped forward, setting the bouquet on the counter. “They’re not from here,” he explained, nodding at the blooms. “Imported blue irises. They reminded me of the rain that day.”
She traced a petal with her fingertip, eyes soft. Then she picked up her notepad and wrote:
They’re beautiful. Thank you.
“I wanted to see you again,” he admitted. “Is that okay?”
Cathy nodded once, heart fluttering.
Adrian glanced around the small shop, breathing in the floral warmth. “This place suits you. It’s quiet but alive — like you built it from sunlight.”
Cathy’s cheeks flushed. She wrote quickly:
It was my mother’s dream. I just keep it growing.
“That’s a good way to live,” Adrian said gently. “Keeping something alive.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them — not uncomfortable, just… full. Then Cathy turned the notepad again:
What do you do, Adrian?
He hesitated, then smiled. “I’m an architect. I build things too, though not as beautiful as this.”
Her eyes lit up. Architect. That explained his steady hands, the way he seemed to see details no one else noticed. She sketched a quick line on the page — a tiny bridge — and showed it to him, her lips forming a faint laugh.
Adrian chuckled softly. “Yes. That one.”
He stayed longer than he meant to. They spoke through written notes, little drawings, small smiles. Time slipped by, unnoticed.
When it was time to leave, Cathy handed him one of her sketches, a small watercolor of the bridge at night.
“For me?” he asked.
She nodded.
Adrian studied it, his throat tight. “You really see the world differently,” he murmured. “I think… you see it better.”
She tilted her head, questioning.
He smiled — a small, true one. “You make silence feel like music.”
Her breath caught.
He took a slow step back toward the door, reluctant to leave. “I’ll see you again, Cathy,” he said softly. “That’s not a promise I make easily.”
And then he was gone — leaving behind the faint scent of rain and irises.
Later that night, Cathy sat at her desk with her sketchbook open, tracing his name on a blank page. Adrian Rivers.
But as she wrote it, a strange feeling tugged at her chest, like something about that name didn’t belong to him.
She didn’t know that his real surname — Vale — could change everything she thought she knew about love, truth, and the world he came from.
For now, she just pressed her fingers to the sketch and whispered into the quiet,
“Thank you.”
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