It was a spring weekend, and though the forecast called for light rain, I insisted on keeping our date—unwilling to miss a moment with him. He suggested wandering the old downtown neighborhood, saying even taking shelter under the plane trees there held a poetic charm. As I stepped out, fine rain had woven a misty veil. Clutching a lavender umbrella, I trod the bluestone path toward the appointed bell tower, my heartbeat louder than the soft pitter-patter of rain.
He arrived a few minutes early, standing beneath the bell tower’s arch in the navy trench coat I’d gifted him, his hair faintly curled by the damp. When he saw me approaching, he smiled and stepped forward, pulling a silver bookmark from his pocket—the cat-shaped one I’d mentioned from the alley’s used bookstore. “I thought you might get bored waiting, so I picked this up first,” he said, the tips of his ears turning pink like maple leaves kissed by raindrops.
We strolled slowly along the old street. When the rain suddenly intensified, he gently guided me under an awning, leaving half his body exposed to the downpour. Passing an antique shop with vintage cameras and intricately carved silverware in the window, he pointed to a pair of copper candlesticks. “We should put these in our study someday,” he said. The word “our” was a tiny spark, igniting a soft glow in the humid air. I hurried to stare at the water droplets falling from my umbrella tip, but heard my own racing heartbeat echoing beneath the fabric.
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