Rain whispered against the cobblestones, its rhythm broken only by the soft coo of pigeons at the boy’s feet. Under his umbrella, he lingered in the glow of the lanterns, their warmth spilling across the wet street like small promises against the gray. The rain-soaked pavement shimmered like a mirror, each golden pool of light guiding his slow steps. With his satchel swinging at his side, boy slowed his steps, listening to the patter of drops on his umbrella. It was the same walk his father once spoke of, through these narrow streets lined with brick and memory. Around him, figures drifted past—strangers bound for elsewhere—but here, on this quiet street, the present blurred with the past, and for a moment it felt as though time itself had stopped to let him linger.
