Ashes in the Rain.

It was too early for the city to be loud. The rain had washed the streets clean, but not quiet. Tires hissed over the wet asphalt. Distant sirens blinked red through mist. A 35 year old Peter walked without direction, aimlessly, hands deep in his coat pockets, collar turned up, the morning cold finding his skin anyway.

He passed a bakery just opening. The woman inside caught his eye through the window and offered a soft smile. He didn’t return it. Not because he was rude, but because he didn’t know how anymore.

Six months ago, there was a version of him that would’ve gone in, chatted her up, maybe brought back a croissant for someone waiting at home.

But there was no one waiting now. And the man who'd have done those things? He was gone.

The betrayal came like rust—quiet, creeping, unnoticed until everything collapsed. The friend—no, the brother—he had once trusted like blood had taken what wasn’t his. A deal. An idea. A chance. Something they’d built together.

And then the knife. Not literal, but in the way that counts.

The revenge had felt righteous. For a time. It started with whispers to the right people, forwarding the wrong documents, speaking truths with edges sharp enough to cut. But it didn’t land the way he thought it would. People backed away—from both of them. The damage spread like smoke in a crowded room. When the fire cleared, no one wanted to be near either man.

And he had been left with nothing. No victory. No resolution. Just the weight of it, heavy in his chest, dragging his steps down. The anger was a ghost that wouldn’t leave. He could almost feel it pressing against him, suffocating him with its demands for attention, for release.

He tried to shake it off, walking faster, shoulders tense, but the city pressed in around him. The sound of footsteps behind him felt too loud. Every car honking, every person on their phone—it was a distraction, a trigger. The world wasn’t letting him forget.

He wasn’t ready to let go, couldn’t bring himself to do it yet, but he was already so damn tired. Tired of the bitterness that curdled his stomach. Tired of pretending he wasn’t broken. How much longer? He asked himself. How much longer could he keep fighting this?

The answer was nowhere.

He didn’t win. He didn’t lose. He just... ended up alone.

A pigeon flapped near his feet as he stepped off the curb, the sound oddly loud in the morning hush. The city always felt lonelier when it was quiet. Like it forgot how to lie.

He turned onto a smaller street, narrower, older. Cobblestones peeked through the asphalt in places. It was the kind of road you could get lost on without ever being lost.

At the end of it was a bench.

It faced a narrow canal, flanked by rusted rails and low-leaning buildings. He hadn’t been here in weeks. Not since that night—the night he'd thrown the flash drive into the water, thinking that would be enough to forget.

He sat. The metal was cold through his coat. Shivering and drowning in his thoughts.

Across the canal, a window blinked with light. Inside, an older man poured tea into two cups. No one else was visible, but the second cup was there. That quiet gesture—mundane, kind, real—hit harder than it should have.

His breath fogged in the air.

He remembered something she'd said once—“You’re not angry because of what he did. You’re angry because you let him.”

He’d hated her for saying that. And loved her more for being right. She was gone, too. Not because of betrayal, but because grief has a way of driving people in opposite directions, and neither of them had the strength to fight the tide.

A woman walked by with a golden retriever. The dog looked up at him, tail wagging once, and kept going. That wag felt like permission. Like the world wasn’t keeping score anymore.

Maybe it never had.

He leaned back on the bench. Closed his eyes.

And for the first time in months, he didn’t replay the arguments, the emails, the headlines. He didn’t feel the need to explain or justify. He didn’t rehearse some imaginary confrontation.

He just... sat.

Let it rain on the ghosts.

Let it all go.

Silence.

His phone buzzed. A name on the screen—someone he hadn’t spoken to since before it all fell apart. A mutual friend. Probably checking in. Probably wondering if he was still bitter. Still fighting shadows.

He let the phone ring out.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he opened the gallery of saved photos—the ones he couldn’t look at but hadn’t deleted. He scrolled through them: smiles that weren’t lies, just moments that had died. He let them linger. Let himself feel them.

Then he deleted them.

Not in anger. Not to prove anything. Just because he didn’t need them anymore.

He stood.

The city had started to wake up. Cars moved a little faster. A horn honked, not out of malice, just routine. A coffee shop across the bridge lit up with warm yellow light. Inside, someone laughed.

He crossed toward it, footsteps soft against the wet stone.

He still carried the scar. Of course he did. That kind of wound doesn’t vanish overnight—it just stops being the loudest thing in the room.

He walked into a coffee shop. The bell above the door chimed. A barista looked up, offered him a tired smile, and asked what he’d like.

He paused.

Then smiled back.

“Just a coffee,” he said. “For here.”

He took the seat by the window, cradling the warm cup between his hands. Outside, the city moved with quiet urgency—umbrellas, briefcases, early meetings. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t watching it from a distance. He was in it. Not yet healed, not yet whole, but here. He was here. And maybe that was enough for now. The bell above the door chimed again, the next customer in, but Peter didn’t feel the urge to retreat. There was a peace in simply sitting—watching life pass by, without the need to chase after it or hold it in place. The world kept turning, and he was no longer fighting against its momentum.

Maybe tomorrow would be harder, or maybe he’d find a new path. For today, though, he let himself linger in the space between the past and what was to come. It was a small thing, but it was real. Over the speakers Dean Martin began to sing "Good morning life ..", indeed.

There's hope.