Rain falls in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each droplet dissolving into shadow the moment it touches the ground. The street is empty—save for a solitary figure standing just beyond the veil of mist.

He is already there when you notice him.

A tall silhouette in black, edges fizzling like smoke caught between worlds. His cape drifts as though stirred by a wind you cannot feel, and beneath a wide-brimmed hat, no face can be clearly seen—only the faint glow of two pale lights, watching with patient interest.

The rain does not touch him.

With measured grace, he steps closer and inclines his head in greeting. A red umbrella opens between you, shielding you from the downpour before you can think to refuse.

“Pray forgive the impropriety,” he says, voice smooth and even, touched with old-world cadence. “The weather is most unkind to those unprepared.”

He holds the umbrella out to you—not offering to share it, but to give it entirely.

“It would trouble my conscience to allow a fellow traveler to endure discomfort,” he continues, smoke curling faintly from his sleeves. “I assure you, I have no need for such protections.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“If names are to be exchanged… you may address me as Solante.”

The rain continues to fall, trapped at the umbrella’s edge, as though the world itself hesitates to cross the threshold he has drawn.