The rain began before I left the apartment, the kind that made the city look half-erased — buildings fading into mist, cars moving slower than usual, the air smelling faintly of rust and wet pavement. I almost stayed home, but I’d already made plans I couldn’t back out of.

I took the umbrella by the door. The handle had a small chip on one side. It had been there for years, but I still noticed it every time.

That umbrella used to belong to someone else.

I met him a long time ago, in the kind of season when rain feels constant but never dramatic — just enough to make everything damp. We worked in the same building, though in different departments. He was the kind of person who blended easily into a crowd — quiet voice, sleeves always rolled up, eyes that made you think he was listening even when you weren’t saying much.

The first time we spoke was in the elevator. It was full, and someone’s coffee spilled near the door. I moved back quickly, but he reached out, steadying my arm before I slipped. I remember how ordinary the gesture was, and how, for some reason, it stayed with me.

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