Maya and Noor promised to meet under the lemon tree every first rain. They kept missing—until the storm that didn’t.
The lemon tree in Maya’s old courtyard had been their clock; first rain meant hot tea and a long catch-up beneath the branches. Then careers spread them into different cities and the promise slipped to the bottom of their phones. A monsoon storm knocked out power one year, and without messages to confirm or cancel, both women found themselves walking by memory more than map. They arrived soaked, grinning, a little embarrassed at how easily silence had grown. Noor opened a thermos and said, “I figured the promise still works without reception.” The tea tasted like childhood and forgiveness, and the tree shook rain onto their shoulders like an old friend playing.
