The Transparency of a Summer Raindrop

I remember the way you looked at me through this clear umbrella—as if my face were an ancient poem you had spent years trying to memorize. The Tokyo Tower stood behind us, a red sentinel guarding our small world from the rushing city tide, while raindrops danced on plastic in rhythmic silence.
You didn't say much that afternoon; instead, your fingertips brushed against mine as we shared this narrow dome of sanctuary. There is something so intimate about being close enough to hear each other breathe beneath a transparent roof—a feeling that time has paused just for us, holding its breath while the world continues in fast-forward around our feet.
I wore my favorite polka-dot dress because you once told me it reminded you of stardust scattered on white silk. Even now, years later when I close my eyes and feel a sudden chill in the air, I can still smell your scent—a mix of old books and rain-dampened asphalt.
I am standing here again today, under this same clear sky that threatens to weep. But you are no longer beside me to hold the handle. Still, if I tilt my head just right, it feels as though our past selves are walking through these streets—two ghosts in a summer haze, eternally intertwined by one single umbrella and an unspoken promise.

Editor: South Wind