The rain started the way arguments do—small, then suddenly about everything. I had no umbrella; she had one the size of a satellite dish.

“Do you live near the station?” she asked, lifting a wing of fabric toward me like a truce. We walked side by side, strangers in a small, borrowed room.

She told me about a job interview she almost canceled. I told her about a phone call I needed to make and didn’t want to. Puddles stitched the sidewalk into silver patches. We edited our stories as we went—less bravado, more truth.

At the corner, she pointed to a narrow path behind the bakery. “Shortcut. Smells like mornings.” Warm bread drifted out, and for a step or two we stopped needing the umbrella.

At the station entrance we paused. The umbrella dripped between us like a comma. “Good luck with your call,” she said. “Good luck with your interview,” I said. The train arrived; the sentence ended.

I didn’t ask her name. That felt right. Not every shelter has a street address. Some are a canopy of canvas held by kind hands for three blocks on a wet Tuesday.

Image ideas: Two shoes on a rainy pavement; umbrella bead-lined with drops.