Raindrops

It was raining.

The kind of rain that blurred the edges of the world, turning everything into a watercolor of gray and silver. Each droplet fell with a quiet insistence, a gentle percussion against the pavement. He had no umbrella. There was no need. He let the rain take him, let it claim him entirely.

It was a deluge, the kind that turned puddles into lakes, the kind that carried ants to their watery graves. The rain soaked through his clothes, his hair, his skin—until it felt as though even his thoughts had become damp. He walked, unhurried, his steps splashing softly in the growing pools. He walked where he always walked at this hour, along the same streets, under the same darkening sky.

The sun, half-hidden behind a veil of clouds, dipped lower, pulling the world into twilight. It was time. Time for the coffee shop. Time to follow the rhythm of a year-long habit that had become more than mere routine.