Café Pleut

Tucked away on a hidden street corner in New York City lives Café Pleut .

This is its story, and its letters to strangers.

Heyo! I'm super excited about this one, because it's something different from everything I've done in the past, but at the same time it's a bit similar. Each chapter will be a story about the character and then their letter to a stranger. It will make more sense once you see a chapter and know what I mean. Happy reading!

Please comment and rate!
~Claire :)

Chapter 1

Rosalia Angelina

It was raining outside. The soft pitter-patter of the drops consistently hit the buildings and sidewalks outside Café Pleut, and Rosalia idly sipped her coffee, which was strong and black, just the way she liked it. As she sipped, her hands doodled unconsciously. A heart here, Lia in fancy cursive there, and finally, her pencil started to make the shape of a girl dancing in the rain.

Lia had been coming to Café Pleut since she was a little girl. She used to come every Tuesday with her mother, and they'd sit by the window to people watch. Every time, her mother would get plain black coffee and Lia would get hot chocolate or chocolate milk, depending on the season. Lia's mother was far too busy to go there on Tuesdays anymore, but Lia herself kept coming.

In fact, Lia had come to love this little place so much that she experienced what she liked to call "Pleut Withdrawal" if she ever missed a Tuesday.

As she sat, one of the workers came up to her and plopped down a piece of paper and a pen on the table. Lia looked up, confused, because normally everyone just let her be. She wondered what they thought of her, the girl they had watched grow up. Sure she was only fifteen, but fifteen years at one café was a long time.

"It's for you, to write a letter to a stranger," the lady said. She was about thirty-five, and had the looks of someone who'd seen too much in too little time. Lia thought about what made her that way. Was it tragedy in the family? Or maybe it was just relationship troubles. New York had this way of showing Lia every possibility that made something the way it was, and she loved to figure out which one was true. While she thought about this, the tired woman silently slipped away to make someone's coffee.

Lia stared at the paper and pen. She'd seen the mailbox, of course. It was starting to look beat up. Lia decided it looked loved more than worn, because the thought of something being loved to pieces made her feel warm inside.The mailbox was meant for anyone. If you entered this little café, you were entitled to either read or write a letter. To a stranger, from a stranger. The idea had always made Lia smile a little, but she never stopped to consider that she should participate.

Maybe if she wrote to a stranger things would make more sense. Maybe she'd understand why suddenly her mother was throwing herself into her job, and her father just moped around the house, pretending he was actively searching for a new job. All he wanted was to be an artist though, and everyone knew it. Everyone knew it, even if no one admitted it.

Lia hesitantly picked up the pen. Then she started writing.

Dear Stranger,

Have you ever wanted to just dance in the rain? I don't mean jumping in puddles or swinging on lamp posts, like in that movie. I mean really dance.

I have. I've always been fascinated by the rain, and the way it bathes everything in a cold, wet blanket. I've always loved the way the lights become blurry glows, and how the umbrellas paint a picture from above. As a kid, rainy days were my favorite. My mom and I would come to this very cafe and sit at the window to watch all the people rush by. Everyone always wanted to get out of the rain. I never saw anyone dance in it. Maybe that's why I want to dance.

It's raining right now, and the cafe is playing that soft jazz station everyone loves. It wouldn't be Café Pleut without a little jazz. Today in French I learned about weather and realized that Café Pleut really means Café Rain, and I think that's beautiful.

I don't really know what writing this will do, but the idea of writing anything I want to someone who I may never know is kind of exciting. Exciting, but scary. I could say anything I wanted, and the possibilities are endless. You'll probably never know who I am. I'll always be just some fifteen-year-old girl who wrote a letter about rain and it's beauty.

I find that beautiful too. I guess I find a lot of things beautiful, now that I think about it. Rain, letters to strangers, umbrellas, almost anything worth looking at. My mom has always told me that I live with my head too far up in the clouds, but my dad has always told me to keep it right there. He says that's the best place a head could ever be, where it's full of creativity and beauty, and where life's a peach.

I think next Tuesday I'll read a letter instead of writing one. This is exciting and new, but I'm afraid of running out of things to say.

Well, Stranger, it's been fun. But I think I'm going to dance in the rain now. For real this time.

Best wishes,

Lia stopped writing and looked at the letter she'd written. She hesitated a moment, taking the last sip of her drink. Then she folded the letter and slipped it into the little mailbox with a smile and a wave. She turned around and slipped out the door into the rain, skipping but not quite dancing yet.

**Yeah, so does this make more sense now? This will be the format every time, but it might not be the same character. You'll see! Anyway, give me a rate and drop me a comment if you enjoyed! Constructive criticism is always appreciated, and feel free to point out any typos I may have made!**

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