The bus whimpered to a halt as the exhausted passengers stepped down towards the freshly dampened --pavement. I trampled my way down the steep steps, my wind-breaker pulled up to cradle my face in Poirot fashion, guarding it from the relentless drizzle. 

The street, typically hectic and cacophonous, had been silenced by the rain. People scampered their way around puddles with their faces masked by umbrellas, reminiscent of shadows from Plato’s cave, only none of it was allegorical here. 

I adjusted my backpack, a burdensome load that seemed to bear a weight beyond what it carried, almost as if its sole purpose was to make my dreadful day even worse. Trekking my way through the dimly lit street, my once spotless shoes splashed in water as I went. 

And then, when I least expected it, there she was, under the radiant sign, her silhouette framed by the gloomy pour. She, too, held an umbrella, but an umbrella just transparent enough for her smile to shine through. A smile that acted as an unwavering compass in an otherwise roiling sea, as if the universe had knowingly led me astray in the first place. She wasn’t keeping her hands tied doing a thing I could see, except simply standing there, keeping my world together.