Blue Umbrella

It was Monday again.

The sort of Monday that begins with promises. Too many of them, really.

Lists scribbled on papers, notes pinned to the wall, mental tabs opened like windows in a spring breeze—loud and many.

Yet the streets, usually roaring by this hour, were quieter than expected.

Perhaps the weight of the workweek pressed heavier today, or perhaps I simply woke too early.

I arrived at my workspace—modest but sufficient. It was a room tucked behind the larger operations floor of Brayford Publishing & Records, the kind of company that still cherished the scent of real paper and the dignity of handwritten signatures.

My office ward was an intimate square—a desk worn smooth at the edges, two filing cabinets, one creaky fan that worked only when it pleased, and a window that opened to a dull alley but let in excellent morning light.

Stacks of manuscripts were piled like miniature cities around me, and today was one of those days I planned to conquer them all—no distractions, no breaks.

But, of course, distractions have a way of knocking.

Literally.

A sharp rap on the door made me glance up, pen halted mid-sentence.

"Come in," I called, tone more weary than I intended.

The door creaked open and in stepped Laurence.

Ah, Laurence. Neat hair, perfect teeth, always three buttons open on his shirt and far too much interest in everyone's business.

"Morning," he chirped, like a bird determined to sing even in a thunderstorm.

I gave him a look. "Morning."

He leaned against the doorframe like he lived there. "How was your weekend, Greyson? Get up to anything exciting?"

I didn't look up. "No."

"No?" He laughed lightly. "Come on. You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

He stepped in further. "Well, I went hiking up by Fenwell Trail. Got rained on, but the view was incredible. You should come sometime."

"I don't hike."

"You should try it. Might surprise you."

"I don't like surprises."

He chuckled, undeterred. "Alright, alright. So what are you reading today? Looks like a beastly pile. Anything scandalous? Political?"

"Not your concern."

He blinked. "Just trying to make conversation."

"Then make it quieter."

There was a beat of silence. His smile faltered, just slightly—like a curtain tugged too quickly. But he recovered fast. Always did.

"Well," he said, smoothing his hair with one hand. "Don't let me disturb your very important silence."

"You already did."

He lingered a second longer, waiting perhaps for some apology I wouldn't give, and then he left with a grin that never touched his eyes.

I scoffed under my breath. Such a hypocrite. Smiling like the words hadn't landed.

They always did. That's what made them come back.

The rest of the morning passed in relative calm, pages shuffled, red ink flowed, and I marked up another three reports with notes that wouldn't be read anyway.

By noon, the meeting bell rang.

A business gathering in the second hall—wide and echoing with its tall ceilings and dust-heavy drapes. Polished wood table stretching long like a river of formality.

We gathered as usual—department heads, two investors, and our ever-observant manager, Mr. Clenn.

He stood at the head, tapping his cane lightly to command attention. His spectacles perched low on his nose, his voice clipped and exact.

"Gentlemen, ladies. Today's discussion regards the quarter-end mergers and adjustments in manuscript circulation. We shall begin with revenue implications…"

The language was old, formal. Most of us only half-listened unless the numbers involved bonuses.

The conversation wandered through ink costs, distributor delays, a brief spat over typographic consistency. I offered a word here and there—nothing profound. Just enough to prove I was awake.

It ended with a dribble rather than a bang, and we were dismissed.

I exited with Elric, one of the younger colleagues, amiable and always chewing something.

"Did you catch Mr. Clenn nearly choking on the word 'cohesion'?" he asked, laughing. "Swallowed half his pride too, I think."

I chuckled. "Couldn't have happened to a more deserving throat."

We were mid-laugh when it happened.

A figure rounded the corner too quickly, and I stepped sideways without thinking. My elbow knocked a stack of portfolios, and they scattered like birds startled by gunfire.

I barely caught myself, saved by Elric's grip on my shoulder.

But she didn't.

The woman fell forward with a soft yelp, papers raining down like feathers all around her.

I bent instinctively to help, pausing when my eyes met hers.

It was her.

The woman I'd bumped into days ago. The one with ink on her fingertips and too much apology in her voice.

She looked stunned, kneeling on the floor, scrambling to gather sheets with trembling hands.

"I—I'm so sorry," she stammered.

Before I could answer, someone behind us spoke—sharp and low.

"Oh, it's her again."

Another voice joined, colder. "Of course it is. Always rushing, always tripping. Do you even look where you're going?"

The woman flinched, hands pausing mid-motion. Her hair fell into her face, hiding the look, but I could see the shake in her shoulders.

Elric leaned close to me. "That's Lillian. She's in transcription, I think. They say she's always like this. Bit of a mess."

"She's harmless," I murmured.

One of the senior clerks—a woman named Agatha, known for her precise tongue—stepped closer.

"There have been complaints," she said flatly. "Sloppy work, missed dates. Not to mention this kind of clumsiness. Again."

Lillian looked ready to vanish into the floor. Her eyes brimmed, lips parted as if to speak but nothing came.

I stood abruptly.

"That's enough."

Agatha raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

"She said sorry. No one was injured. We've all dropped something before."

"Still, the standards—"

"Don't preach them unless you follow them," I said, too sharply. "You spill more coffee than you proof pages."

There was a tense silence. Elric blinked beside me. A few heads turned.

I knelt and helped Lillian gather the last of her papers. She looked up, startled, as I handed her the stack.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice threadbare.

I nodded. "Be careful next time."

She gave a small, broken smile—more of gratitude than comfort—and hurried off down the hallway, head bowed.

I watched her until she disappeared.

Elric said nothing for a while. Then, softly, "You alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Didn't think you were the type to speak up like that."

"I wasn't," I murmured, beginning to walk again.

"Then what changed?"

I thought of her eyes—how they didn't meet anyone else's. How she reminded me of myself, not long ago. Lost in corners. Apologising for simply existing.

"Nothing changed," I said aloud. "Just didn't like the noise."

Elric looked at me oddly but didn't press. I was grateful.

—♥—

Right after work, the world outside stirred once more, a city in motion but softened by fatigue.

The streets bustled again—not with urgency, but with a sort of mellowed energy.

People walked tiredly, but happily, faces drawn yet faintly lit with something like contentment. How strange, I thought, that one could be both weary and full of peace.

I, too, held my briefcase with a shoulder already burdened, the ache trailing from spine to wrist.

I shifted the weight, trying not to show discomfort. But my steps only grew heavier when the sky above decided it had had enough of blue.

The clouds, once patchy and white, rolled in thick and low, turning to bruised gray in a matter of minutes.

A slow wind picked up, spiraling loose papers and tugging hats, and the smell in the air changed—wet dust, old metal, storm. I could almost taste the rain before it arrived.

One by one, the stall vendors in the square began to shut their awnings. Some clattered in a hurry; others worked calmly, as if they had expected the clouds all along.

I walked with a few colleagues who shared the same direction. Their chatter was loud and a bit excited, as though the coming rain was reason to be youthful again.

They joked and called farewells with raised voices as we all split like droplets on glass, each taking a turn into the city.

Some trailed behind me, but I wasn't close with any of them. I kept my head down, trying to lengthen my stride before the sky broke.

But oh, when it broke—it broke.

The first few drops were sharp, falling like cold needles. And then, all at once, the heavens emptied.

Rain slammed down with no pause or rhythm, just one great crashing descent.

I yelped softly when a heavy slap of water hit my cheek, stinging like a thrown stone.

My coat was already drenched through. In a panic, I dashed toward the nearest overhang I could find—a bent tin roof that curved above an old brick cottage on the side of the park road.

There was no room to sit, no comfort. Just shelter from the drumming sky.

I leaned against the wall and caught my breath, my hair dripping, my shoes squelching.

The cold crept in at my collar, curling fingers around my spine.

The rain showed no mercy.

My house was still a street and a half away. It might as well have been the next town.

I sighed, feeling more than a little hopeless. My hands were trembling from cold or nerves or both, and I hadn't the faintest idea how long I'd have to stand there.

Then I noticed something.

A figure. With an umbrella.

Walking toward me on the empty path.

They weren't running. They weren't struggling or flinching beneath the downpour.

They moved steadily—unbothered, somehow untouched by the storm.

There was a road beside me, leading cleanly down toward the residential line, completely open. Yet the figure came nearer… and then paused.

They turned their head.

And looked straight at me.

For a moment, I stared back, wary and confused. Their face was obscured by the sheets of rain, and something about the stillness in their posture made my heart thump.

I gave a polite smile. Awkward. Drenched. Then quickly turned my gaze away, pretending I hadn't noticed how my pulse had picked up.

Then—my name.

"Greyson."

I stiffened.

It wasn't shouted. Just said. Like a note on a piano struck in an empty hall.

My heart raced at the sound, cold now replaced with an internal heat that crawled up my neck.

Who knew my name?

I turned, and the figure stepped closer, the details coming into focus at last.

Elias.

Of course.

How pleasant—and yet how unpleasant.

Pleasant because, in truth, I had been hoping to see him again. I wasn't quite sure why… only that I had found myself glancing at his door more often than I would ever admit aloud.

Unpleasant because I looked a wreck—dripping, disheveled, completely unprepared to be perceived, especially by someone who always appeared so… composed.

He stopped before me, moving the umbrella ever slightly, rain drenching a side of him without the slightest care.

"You're going to catch something standing there," he said, his tone calm as ever.

I hesitated, unsure what to say.

He tilted his head. "Come on."

"Out into that?" I gestured at the rainfall.

"Yes."

I blinked at him, but he didn't wait. He stepped away, back into the curtain of rain, under his umbrella. Somehow, his strides didn't falter. The water didn't slow him.

I grumbled softly to myself, sighed, and stepped after him.

We walked together through it, under the umbrella—side by side, soaked from head to heel.

My shoes squelched louder with every step, and my hair stuck flat to my forehead, but Elias? He was maddeningly unbothered.

He didn't speak.

Neither did I.

There was only the roar of rain, the slap of drops against cobblestones, the occasional distant roll of thunder.

And us.

Two strangers with shared silence.

When we reached our street at last, he paused. Turned to me. Said nothing, just stared.

His gaze was steady, unreadable, as always. He looked at me as though trying to understand something even he couldn't name.

Then, without a word, he lifted the umbrella—and handed it to me.

"You're colder than I am," he said, and stepped away, toward his own door, now just a few feet off.

"But—won't you—" I tried.

He lifted a hand in quiet farewell.

I stood there, stunned, holding the open umbrella while he disappeared inside his house, now thoroughly soaked and perfectly indifferent.

I blinked, then—finally—let out a breath that had been caught in my chest since he'd said my name.

I turned on my heel and ran. Not walked. Ran.

Partly because I was excited. Partly because I was relieved.

But mostly because I didn't want him to see the way my smile refused to leave my face.

I burst through my door, dripping like a river, and was immediately greeted with a loud, offended meow.

"Anna!" I cried, spotting her by the door. "Oh, my girl, I thought I'd never see you again!"

She flattened her ears as I scooped her up, giving a wet protest and clawing at my sleeves. I spun her gently, ignoring her furry rage.

She struggled from my arms with an offended yowl and stormed away into the house like a queen wronged.

I laughed. "You ungrateful fuzzball. I was worried about you!"

She didn't even glance back.

With haste, I stripped from my soaked clothes and stepped into a warm bath. The heat kissed away the chill in my bones, and I sighed into the quiet.

Later, I prepared a small dinner—nothing special, but warm and filling—and made sure Anna's bowl was full, as it always should be.

She ate beside me with the air of a reluctant truce.

And then I fell into bed, tired and oddly… satisfied.

—♥—

The rain had ended sometime around midnight, though its breath still lingered—clinging to rooftops, settling in the soft soil of flower beds, and beading gently on the iron railings of fences.

The morning air was cool, still damp, as though the world had just been bathed and now lay swaddled in cloud-woven blankets.

I rose as usual, dressed for work in pressed slacks and a modest shirt, and brushed back the stray hair that always refused to stay down.

I checked on Anna, who stretched in a manner far too luxurious for a creature who'd done nothing but sleep.

"I'll be back early today," I told her, crouching down. "Hopefully."

She blinked slowly, uninterested in such promises.

I frowned. "I've been thinking... Maybe you need a friend."

At that, she turned her back on me.

"You know, a companion," I added with a sigh. "So you're not alone all day. But not a male. No surprises, thank you."

Anna flicked her tail.

"No kittens. Absolutely not."

And with that firm decision still echoing in my mind, I set out.

My street wore the quietness of a Tuesday morning. A few neighbors swept puddles from their walkways.

A postboy with a crooked cap whistled out of tune. All familiar sights. All unchanged.

Except this time, I paused.

At his gate.

Elias' house—just two houses down from mine—stood like a painting untouched by time.

There was a quietness to it, not in the sense of silence, but in the way it didn't demand attention. Its walls were brushed a soft, weathered beige.

A line of wild rosemary climbed one side, unruly but beautiful.

The fence was iron, with rounded tips, and the little stone path that led to his door was mossy and narrow.

Peaceful. Very much like him.

I stared at the navy blue umbrella in my hand. It was still damp from last night, and for some reason, it made me feel oddly nostalgic.

As if I'd seen it somewhere…

Before I could linger further, the gate clicked.

And there he was.

Elias.

Tall, as ever. But today, dressed sharply in a three-piece suit that fit him like it had been made to fit no one else. Slate grey.

Subtle pinstripes. A navy tie that matched the umbrella now trembling slightly in my grip.

There was a shift in him—an aura I hadn't seen before. The calm stillness remained, but it had acquired the edge of command.

The kind that comes not from noise, but from stillness that listens before it speaks.

"You're staring," he said calmly, hands in his pockets.

I blinked. "I—wasn't. I mean, I was. But I didn't mean to."

"What are you doing here?"

"I—came to return your umbrella." I held it up. "You gave it to me yesterday. In the rain."

He glanced at it, as if only now remembering. "Ah."

He reached out and took it. "Thank you."

And just like that, he turned to leave.

I stood, feeling vaguely foolish, unsure if that was the end of the interaction.

But then he stopped, looked over his shoulder, and asked, "Aren't you coming?"

I blinked. "To my workplace?"

He gave a half nod. "Isn't that what you're dressed for?"

I opened my mouth, then shut it. Then nodded quickly and caught up with him, my shoulder brushing briefly against his as we walked.

It felt surreal, walking beside Elias on a weekday morning. Like I had wandered into someone else's life. Or a dream I wasn't meant to remember.

We moved quietly, my mind whirring louder than my steps.

"Do you—uh—usually dress like that for work?" I asked, gesturing to his suit.

He glanced at me. "Yes."

"Right. Makes sense. You look like someone important."

He arched a brow. "Do I?"

"Yes."

He didn't respond. So I kept talking.

"I've worked there for three years now, but I've never seen you around. Though I mostly keep to myself. My ward's in the back. Sort of buried in administration. I process departmental reports. Sometimes proof edits. I suppose it's not very glamorous, but it's peaceful. I'm… I'm quiet. I like it that way."

"I see," he said, with the tone of someone who truly did see.

I cleared my throat. "So… what exactly do you do?"

"I was transferred from the East District," he replied. "Management. Upper acquisitions."

I stopped walking for a moment.

"You're in upper acquisitions?"

He nodded.

"But—that's… two levels above my department. You're nearly part of the regional board."

"Temporarily," he said. "I'm overseeing a reorganization."

"Oh," I said. "So you're… my boss?"

"Not directly."

"But… still?"

He gave the faintest trace of a smirk. "Still."

I groaned, burying my face in my hand. "Great. Just perfect."

"What is?"

"I've walked beside you like a lost duckling, babbled like a fool, and now you turn out to be a high-ranking executive in a suit."

"You were fine."

"I was embarrassing."

"You're still fine."

That shut me up for the next several steps.

When we arrived at the company building, the usual grey façade loomed. But today, it felt heavier. And Elias—well, he belonged to it in a way I never could.

Inside, the shift was immediate.

He was greeted by supervisors, nodded at by interns, even Mr. Clenn himself stepped forward to shake his hand. Elias handled it all with polite detachment.

And I?

I melted into the background where I belonged.

I slipped away without saying farewell. That was how it had to be. I knew better than to let personal and professional lives blur.

My heart was a sulky child, but my feet obeyed my head.

Back in my office ward, the door barely clicked shut before another knock came.

Laurence.

Again.

Every morning.

Like clockwork.

I groaned inwardly.

"Morning, Greyson," he said, leaning against the doorframe like he paid rent on it.

"Laurence," I said flatly.

"You're looking well today. Better than yesterday, I'd say."

"Go away."

"I just thought—"

"Go away, Laurence."

He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "You wound me."

"No. You annoy me."

"Right. Still refusing to see the charm in casual conversation. You'll come around one day."

"Keep dreaming."

Eventually, he gave up, tossing a "See you at lunch" over his shoulder as he left.

I didn't bother answering.

Later that afternoon, an announcement blared through the corridors.

There'd been a development. A key deal. Everyone was to stay back for extended work hours.

Groans erupted like a chorus in every department.

My groan was silent—but no less real.

When the clock finally ticked past six-thirty, we were all shadows of ourselves. Some dragged their feet. Others trudged with slumped shoulders and loose ties. Farewells were shorter, more tired.

But I?

I melted into the background where I belonged.

I slipped away without saying farewell. That was how it had to be. I knew better than to let personal and professional lives blur.

My heart was a sulky child, but my feet obeyed my head.

Back in my office ward, the door barely clicked shut before another knock came.

Laurence.

Again.

Every morning.

Like clockwork.

I groaned inwardly.

"Morning, Greyson," he said, leaning against the doorframe like he paid rent on it.

"Laurence," I said flatly.

"You're looking well today. Better than yesterday, I'd say."

"Go away."

"I just thought—"

"Go away, Laurence."

He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "You wound me."

"No. You annoy me."

"Right. Still refusing to see the charm in casual conversation. You'll come around one day."

"Keep dreaming."

Eventually, he gave up, tossing a "See you at lunch" over his shoulder as he left.

I didn't bother answering.

Later that afternoon, an announcement blared through the corridors.

There'd been a development. A key deal. Everyone was to stay back for extended work hours.

Groans erupted like a chorus in every department.

My groan was silent—but no less real.

When the clock finally ticked past six-thirty, we were all shadows of ourselves. Some dragged their feet. Others trudged with slumped shoulders and loose ties. Farewells were shorter, more tired.

But I?

I was… content.

Because I knew.

Elias would be walking with me.

And sure enough, there he was. Appearing out of the hall like a calm tide. Still graceful. Still unbothered.

He approached me, his gaze steady as always.

"Leaving now?" he asked.

I startled slightly, then nodded. "Yes. Just… gathering myself."

"Let's go."

The walk home was bathed in soft streetlight, and the darkness that fell over the city felt more like a blanket than a threat. The town was still alive, but gentler now.

We walked side by side.

I snuck a glance at him.

Still so quiet.

Still unreadable.

And I wondered—was he always this closed off? Or was I simply not inside his world enough to see?

A strange melancholy bloomed in my chest.

Not because he didn't smile.

But because I didn't know how to make him.

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