The rain started just after midnight—soft at first, then heavier.

  Angel was asleep. The institute apartments were quiet. Most of the researchers had already gone home for the night.

  I couldn’t sleep.

  I stood in the kitchen staring at the window, watching raindrops slide slowly down the glass. Behind me the apartment was silent—the kind of silence that makes your thoughts louder.

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  Angel’s voice came from the hallway.

  I turned. She stood there in the dim light, barefoot, holding the edge of the doorframe.

  “How long have you been awake?” I asked.

  “A while.”

  She walked slowly into the kitchen, her calm eyes watching me carefully.

  “The photo,” she said.

  My chest tightened.

  “I burned it,” I replied.

  “I know.”

  Angel climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs, her legs dangling slightly.

  “But the secret didn’t disappear.”

  “No,” I said quietly. “It didn’t.”

  For several minutes neither of us spoke. Only the rain against the window.

  Finally I exhaled slowly.

  “Her name was Wei Shen.”

  Angel nodded slightly. “I know.”

  “Of course you do.”

  I leaned against the kitchen counter, looking down at the floor.

  “We met when we were sixteen. She transferred into our school halfway through the year.”

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  I smiled faintly.

  “She was quieter than everyone else. But when she laughed, the whole room changed.”

  Outside, thunder rolled softly in the distance.

  “She was sick,” I said.

  Angel didn’t react. She already knew.

  “Leukemia.”

  The word still felt heavy after all these years.

  “The doctors gave her maybe two years.”

  I closed my eyes briefly.

  “But she didn’t act like someone who was dying.”

  Angel tilted her head. “What was she like?”

  I thought about it—the girl I had refused to remember for so long.

  “She loved small things,” I said softly. “Sunlight. Rain. Old bookstores. She said ordinary days were the most beautiful.”

  My voice grew quieter.

  “She was braver than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  The rain outside intensified.

  “But I wasn’t.”

  Angel didn’t interrupt. She simply waited.

  “She asked me to meet her one evening at the hospital. She said she had something important to tell me.”

  My hands tightened against the counter.

  “And you didn’t go,” Angel said softly.

  “No.”

  The word barely escaped my throat.

  “I stayed home. I told myself I was tired.”

  I swallowed slowly.

  “But the truth…”

  Angel finished the sentence.

  “You were afraid.”

  I nodded.

  “Yes. I was afraid she was going to die, and I didn’t want to watch it happen.”

  The kitchen fell silent again—only rain and distant thunder.

  “She waited on the hospital roof for two hours,” I continued.

  Angel’s eyes never moved.

  “Then she jumped.”

  The words felt colder than the rain outside.

  “I didn’t find out until the next morning.”

  I laughed softly, though there was no humor in it.

  “The police said it was depression.”

  My fingers trembled slightly.

  “But I knew the truth.”

  Angel asked quietly, “What truth?”

  I looked at her.

  “She wasn’t alone on that roof.”

  Angel blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “She waited for me.”

  The words came slowly.

  “And when I didn’t come… she thought I had abandoned her.”

  The rain outside softened again.

  Angel climbed down from the chair and walked across the kitchen floor until she stood beside me.

  “You didn’t push her,” she said gently.

  “No.”

  “You didn’t tell her to jump.”

  “No.”

  She looked up at me.

  “But you believe you killed her.”

  I didn’t answer.

  Because she was right.

  Angel stood there quietly for a long time. Then she said something unexpected.

  “She waited because she trusted you.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  Angel thought for a moment.

  “But she also waited because she loved you.”

  My throat tightened.

  “Love isn’t a contract,” she said simply. “People choose what they do with it.”

  I looked down at her.

  “And what did she choose?”

  Angel hesitated, then answered carefully.

  “She chose hope.”

  The rain outside slowed, almost stopping.

  Angel stepped closer.

  “You didn’t take that from her.”

  “Then why do I still feel responsible?” I whispered.

  Angel looked thoughtful.

  “Because secrets grow heavier over time.”

  She reached out and gently touched my hand.

  “But now it isn’t only yours.”

  For the first time in seventeen years, the weight inside my chest felt slightly lighter.

  Outside the clouds began to break. A thin line of moonlight appeared through the rain.

  Angel looked toward the window, then back at me.

  “You see?” she said softly.

  “What?”

  “Connections.”

  She pointed toward my chest.

  “She’s still here.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  But for the first time in a very long time—

  I believed it might actually be true.