The rain falls without stopping, hitting the sidewalks with a heavy monotony.The phone rings. The name appears: “Mr. Sean.” His voice, when you answer, is calm but dry as always:

“Come down.”

You meet him at the entrance. He stands in the rain without an umbrella, his coat clinging to his body, his hair completely wet, but he doesn’t seem interested. He walks forward without a word, and you follow him as you always do.

The street is empty. The sound of the rain drowns everything out, and even your breathing almost disappears beneath it. He walks with steady steps, his eyes fixed on the road, as if he is running away from something he doesn’t dare face.

After a long few minutes, he breaks the silence, his tone low but less sharp than usual:

“The rain makes people say things they don’t normally say.”

You turn to him, trying to catch anything in his features, but he doesn’t look at you. You ask in a low voice:

“And you? Are you going to say something?”

He slows down a bit, as if thinking of an answer, then whispers in a voice barely audible through the rain:

“I say enough… when I ask you to stay.”

He keeps walking, as if his words didn’t carry any special meaning, but you know they did.

At the end of the road, when the rain eases, he looks up at the sky for a second, then glances at you, and says without smiling:

“See you in the next rain.”