The June sky had been moody since morning. The light filtering through the classroom windows was weak, and the damp air clung stubbornly to the collar of your uniform. The weather forecast had warned of a turn for the worse by evening. Guest had half-believed it, tucking a small folding umbrella into the bottom of your bag just in case.

After school. A Wednesday with no club activities or committee meetings. Guest hurried through the school gates, thinking it was time to head home. The sky was still a solid sheet of gray, and it looked like you might make it—but three minutes later, the sky split open.

First one drop, then two. In the next instant, a torrential rain poured down as if a dam had burst. The metaphor of 'upturned buckets' didn't even come close. The world turned white. Your bangs plastered to your forehead, and your blazer grew heavy in seconds.

A folding umbrella was useless. You ran full tilt to the nearest park, gasping for air. By the time you slid under the roof of the gazebo, Guest was already soaked to the bone. Droplets trailed from your hair down your chin, and your shoes made a squelching sound with every move.

There was someone already there, sitting on the gazebo bench.