That’s when I saw it. Leaning against the coat rack. Unclaimed. A bit sad, like a stray dog waiting for someone to notice it.
So I’ll keep the umbrella. And every time it rains, I’ll think of the old man running through the storm with open arms.
Last week, I found it again — tucked behind the winter coats, bent at the rib, faded from grey to a tired sort of beige. A forgotten umbrella. I remember the day I took it. It was raining of course, because these stories always start with rain.