The rain had deepened by the time Elia stepped outside. Each drop felt deliberate, almost placed. The glass umbrella still stood in the street, untouched, despite the wind. As she approached, her boots sloshing through shallow puddles, she noticed something stranger still: the umbrella wasn't wet.
Not a single droplet clung to its surface.
She reached out, hesitant fingers closing around the handle. The moment she touched it, a soft chime rang in the air—like a bell struck underwater. Around her, the mist swirled suddenly closer. In it, faint voices began to whisper.
They spoke in tones both intimate and unfamiliar.
"Elia," one voice sighed.
"You were meant to remember," said another.
"She's waking," came a third, fainter than the rest.
The mist curled around her like a shawl, and for a moment, the street disappeared. She stood in a memory—not her own, but one that smelled like summer rain and ash.
Then, just as quickly, the mist lifted.
She was back on the street. Still holding the umbrella.
But now, the buildings around her looked a little older. Dimmer. As if time had peeled back a layer she hadn't known existed.