The old woman looked half-wild: drenched and muddied, but what intrigued me was the surprisingly dry umbrella in her hand. Strange. She turned and smiled at me as if she sensed what I was thinking.
“My son gifted it to me, before he died in the war.” A shadow fell over her eyes.
“This is the only memory I have of him. I’d rather get myself drenched than let it be ruined in a heavy rain like this.”
I nodded. Deep inside my bag lay a broken watch. I recalled a similar conversation with my son after his father passed.