The cat café had settled into its usual lull before closing, the lights dimmed to a cozy gold hue, soft jazz playing low in the background, and sleepy felines sprawled across plush cushions and laps. The few remaining customers were quietly sipping the last of their drinks or quietly scrolling through their feeds, murmuring about Velvet Echo's latest viral posts.
Ken wiped down the counter, humming to himself, already dreaming about his late-night snacks, when Madam Mu, still regal in her jade-green shawl, stretched languidly, Baozi curled in her lap. Her eyes twinkled as she looked toward Luna, who was busy folding napkins with a mechanical rhythm that suggested she was already half-distracted by the day's chaos.
"Luna," Madam Mu purred, drawing out the name like it was something vintage and cherished. "Would you sing me that old song? The one about the woman walking through the rain… lost in her heartbreak?"
Luna's hands stilled.
Her gaze lifted slowly, brows raised in quiet surprise. "You still remember that?"
Madam Mu gave her a knowing look. "Darling, a soul-borne song doesn't leave easily. Especially when it's sung from a heart not quite mended."
Ken's head popped up from behind the espresso machine. "Wait, what song?"
Luna shook her head with a dry smile. "It was something I made up during my first year here. I didn't think anyone would remember."
"Then sing it again," Ken said eagerly, already pulling out his phone. "We'll post it as a request too—for Velvet Echo! Imagine that!"
Luna gave him a look.
"Ken," she growled, "you just want to boost café traffic with emotional damage."
Ken grinned unrepentantly. "And maybe—just maybe—it'll reach your mom, right? If Velvet Echo sings it?"
That silenced her.
Even Leroy, who had been gathering empty teacups, paused and slowly turned, one hand resting on the back of a chair. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—keen, dark, watchful—stayed locked on her.
With a soft, resigned sigh, Luna walked over to the old upright piano tucked into the corner near the window, long since unused but lovingly maintained. She sat, ran her fingers over the keys once, and exhaled.
No stage. No filter. Just the dim café, the scent of tea and milk, and the soft purring of cats.
Then she began to sing.
The Rain Will Never Know
(Original song by Luna)
She walks with echoes on the pavement,
Umbrella closed, heart undone.
The sky weeps quietly for her,
But it's the only one.
Strangers pass, their eyes slip past her—
No story stays, no names to keep.
And he, the one who promised always,
Didn't even turn to see.
The rain falls soft to hide her heartbreak,
Each drop a whisper of goodbye.
No one stops to see the thunder
That's storming in her eyes.
Her voice wasn't the ethereal velvet of Velvet Echo. No, this was different.
It was raw silk unraveling. It was an ache disguised as a lullaby. Not the voice of an icon or a siren—but of a girl mourning something she could never name out loud.
Leroy closed his eyes for a moment, breath held, as if the melody curled around an old scar inside him. Even Ken stood frozen, phone halfway raised, uncertain, pressed record.
Madam Mu smiled softly, the kind of smile only those who had lived long enough to see everything come and go could wear. She patted Baozi gently.
"That's the voice of a girl who's walked in the rain more than once," she murmured.
When the song ended, there was a silence far deeper than any applause.
Then Luna—without looking at anyone—simply turned to Ken and said, "If you're going to post it, do it anonymously."
Ken only nodded.
Even he wasn't dumb enough to ruin a moment like that.
Within minutes, the audio—simple, piano-backed, full of ache—was posted under the café's account as a request for Velvet Echo.
"From one broken soul to another. If this song reaches you, would you sing it back into the world?
#VelvetEcho #TheRainWillNeverKnow #VoicesOfHome"
Outside, the streets were dry.
But in a tucked-away café, everyone could still hear the rain.
____________________________________________________________________________
Finally back at home,
The evening sun dipped low behind the hills surrounding the estate, casting long golden beams across the manor's stained-glass windows. Luna padded into the house barefoot, still warm from her walk, her skin fragrant with the lavender soak she'd nearly drowned in had she not jolted awake moments before. Her hair was wrapped in a towel, and her cheeks still pink from the steam.
She was late for dinner.
Again.
With a wince, she pushed open the double doors to the dining room only to find Emmerich already seated at the long table, reading something on his tablet. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, silver-streaked hair a bit more tousled than usual. The table was tastefully set, a roasted sea bass centerpiece framed by smaller platters of sautéed greens and fresh rolls.
He looked up when she entered, immediately setting the tablet aside.
"You're late," he said, voice low and dry—but his eyes were soft with affection.
"I fell asleep in the bath," Luna confessed, dragging her feet to her chair. "I think I turned into a prune."
Emmerich chuckled under his breath. "Take your time next time. No need to rush for formality."
She smiled tiredly as she sat down. "But it's you. If I leave you alone too long, you might start eating cookies before the main course."
"That was one time," he grumbled, as she raised an eyebrow. "...or a few times."
Luna laughed, and Emmerich smiled.
They ate in a comfortable rhythm, father and daughter in their own bubble of quiet understanding. The clink of silverware, the murmur of the evening breeze. The familiar smells and familial stillness… and yet, Luna's thoughts churned beneath her calm exterior.
The song.
The one she posted. The one she recorded with trembling hands and a held breath. It still echoed in her chest. Her heart felt swollen—raw from the exposure.
She thought of her mother, of a woman blurred in memory but ever present in emotion. She wondered—did she hear it? Did her voice find its way across the storm of years and silence?
She swallowed the ache with a sip of cold barley tea.
And then came dessert—warm caramelized apples over puff pastry with cream. Luna took one big bite.
And nearly choked.
"I do have a small request tonight," Emmerich said, entirely too casually. "Would you sing for me?"
Luna stopped mid-bite, eyes wide.
"You—what?"
"Just one song," he said, watching her closely. "Not for Velvet Echo. Not for strangers. Just for me."
She blinked rapidly. "Did… Madam Mu tell you to ask that?"
"She might've suggested it," he admitted with a shrug. "But I've wanted to for a while now."
Luna stared down at her dessert.
Her first instinct was to deflect. Joke. Say she lost her voice or needed a tip jar. But then she looked up.
Emmerich wasn't teasing.
He looked... hopeful.
No, more than that—longing. Like he had waited years to hear something from her that words alone couldn't give. A father who entered her life late, who had stumbled into the quiet hurricane of her youth and tried to plant roots in soil already hardened by pain and absence.
She let the silence settle for a moment.
And then, softly, she said, "I wrote one for you, you know. When I was ten."
His brows lifted.
"I thought you didn't write songs until high school."
"I didn't show anything until high school." She smiled faintly. "But that song… that one was mine. It was the first one I ever finished. I never sang it to anyone."
He leaned forward, eyes kind. "Would you…?"
She nodded. Once.
She stood, pushing her chair back. Took a deep breath.
And sang.
Her voice was not perfectly tuned. Not elegant or polished like Velvet Echo. It trembled with the softness of a child's longing and the jagged edge of old sorrow.
"I see fathers pick up children,
And I wonder how that feels.
To be carried in arms that never forget you,
To know someone's love is real…"
Emmerich froze.
"I would make-believe your stories,
In a voice I never knew,
Draw a face I never studied,
Pretend it looked like you."
The words sliced through the stillness.
Emmerich's gaze dropped, and for the first time in years, he couldn't hide it—the guilt, the helpless ache of a man who had missed birthdays, bedtime stories, bandages on scraped knees.
"And I dreamed of arms that caught me
When I'd fall and no one saw,
Of a laugh that made my monsters
Scurry quiet 'cross the floor."
"So I sang my lullabies to shadows
And gave my love to air,
Still I saved a song for someone
Who I hoped was always there…"
Luna's voice cracked slightly at the end, but she did not stop.
She only closed her eyes, and whispered the last lines—
"So if you're out there and you hear me,
Know this song belongs to you.
From a daughter who kept dreaming—
Of a father who'd be true."
Silence fell like snowfall.
Luna exhaled slowly, trembling hands smoothing the folds of her skirt as she sat back down.
Across from her, Emmerich swallowed hard. He didn't speak for a long moment—his eyes bright, his throat too tight.
Then softly, hoarsely, he said, "That… was the most painful and beautiful gift I've ever received."
Luna shrugged. "Well… happy late Father's Day, I guess."
He laughed wetly, wiping the corner of his eye. "You always find a way to hit exactly where it matters."
"You're welcome."
They sat in silence after that.
Not the kind born of discomfort—but of understanding. A fragile bridge between the years they lost and the ones they now had.
And beneath it all, in Luna's heart, that ache softened just a little.
The dishes were long cleared, the dessert plates scraped clean, and the dining room had fallen into a quiet lull. Luna and Emmerich remained seated at the long oak table, the candlelight still flickering softly between them. The space smelled faintly of cinnamon and apples, and the silence was no longer heavy—it was content.
Luna leaned back in her chair, the remnants of a warm, emotional ache still settling in her chest. Across from her, Emmerich cradled a cup of herbal tea, hands loose, gaze fixed on her like she might vanish if he blinked too long.
Then, with the most awkward of pauses and a hesitant sort of hopefulness, Emmerich cleared his throat.
"…Do you want me to read you a storybook before bed?"
Luna blinked. The question landed like a feather at first—until the absurdity sank in.
And then she laughed.
Loud.
So loud it echoed around the room.
She bent over the table, clutching her side as wave after wave of laughter escaped her lips, her face turning pink with the force of it. "Are you—you're serious?"
"I mean—" Emmerich looked slightly defensive but mostly amused. "I used to read them to your cousins, and I did read stories to an empty crib thinking you were there sleeping... Figured it might… I don't know, be great for bonding."
Luna wheezed, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. "Dad—I'm twenty-seven. I have back pain when I sit wrong. I get excited about cute cups and complain about waking on the wrong side of the bed. No, I do not need you to read me a bedtime story."
He chuckled quietly, letting her have her moment.
Wiping her eyes and calming down, Luna finally leaned on the table with a fond grin. "But… I appreciate the thought. Really. You trying—this—all of this, it means more than you know."
Emmerich tilted his head slightly.
She took a slow breath and continued, her voice softer now. "The past was a mess. Some of it… yeah, it hurt. A lot. But we've got the present now. And I think… that's enough to heal what it needs to heal."
For a beat, Emmerich didn't respond. He only looked at her, like he was seeing her again for the first time. The young woman she became, the little girl that grew strong, the girl he once hoped to hug and spoil, and the fragile hope between them.
Then, gently, he got up and walked over to her side of the table. He placed a hand on her head, ruffling her hair slightly, before bending down and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
"You're never too old for a kiss on the forehead," he murmured.
Luna just smiled, eyes fluttering shut for a second. "You're getting sappy."
"A dad is supposed to be sappy, Baby girl," he declared with a soft smile, already turning to leave.
Luna watched his retreating form until he disappeared into the hallway. She sat there a few moments longer, the soft warmth from his gesture lingering on her skin like the faint warmth of a blanket left in the sun.
Eventually, she stood and made her way upstairs. Her steps were slower than usual—not from exhaustion, but from the softness in her chest. Something tender, something whole.
She crawled into bed, Miso curling instantly at her feet, and pulled the blanket up to her chin.
Her father's clumsy effort… wasn't so clumsy after all.
And as she drifted off to sleep, there was no ache in her chest—only quiet peace.