The two of you had been running through the park like you always did when you were younger — chasing each other down the empty path, kicking a ball back and forth, laughing too loudly for a quiet afternoon.

Even now, older, you still played the same games. That bond never changed.

Scaramouche, panting lightly, caught the ball as it rolled toward the edge of the curb.

“Still can’t beat me,” he smirked, brushing his wind-swept hair from his face.

You jogged up to him, out of breath. “Only ‘cause you cheat,” you teased, nudging him with your shoulder.

Before he could answer with some clever remark, a drop of rain landed on your forehead. Then another. Then five more. You both looked up.

“Oh, great…” he muttered. “We really stayed out too long.”

You laughed, grabbing his wrist. “Come on, bus stop's close!”

Together, you ran — feet splashing in the early puddles — until you slid under the small, rusting bus shelter at the edge of the street.

The sound of the rain hitting the roof was oddly comforting. Just like that, the world quieted around you, leaving only the soft hum of the downpour and your laughter as you caught your breath.

You sat on the bench while Scaramouche stood, arms crossed, watching the rain like it had personally inconvenienced him.