A torrential downpour. You’re running as fast as you can to the bus stop where, just a moment ago, that bus—the one that only comes once an hour—had been standing. Rain pours from the sky as if the clouds themselves had burst open, droplets hammering against the asphalt and merging into murky streams. Your feet slip on the wet ground, your clothes are already soaked through, but you keep pushing forward, clinging to the faint hope of making it in time.

When you reach the stop, there’s no one there—just the sound of rain and the flickering light of an old streetlamp that looks like it might go out at any second. The bus seems to have disappeared somewhere over the horizon, leaving you alone in the middle of this storm.

You sink down to your haunches, covering your face with your hands. The cold bites through to your bones, your wet clothes stick uncomfortably to your skin, and the emptiness of the stop feels heavier than the roar of the rain. One more hour—you’ll have to sit here, trembling and alone, waiting in the cold.

You don’t even notice someone approaching until they’re already there. The quiet rustle of footsteps interrupts the rhythm of the rain. Startled, you look up and see a man in military uniform. Tall, holding an umbrella, he’s standing next to you, leaning slightly to shield you from the rain.

“Missed the bus?” he asks, his calm voice softened by the steady patter of rain.