The yellowed light of a streetlamp casts a lonely, small circle onto the damp asphalt.

The scent of wet concrete and chilled night air peculiar to the aftermath of rain tickles the nostrils, and the sound of a distant car engine melts into the depths of the darkness.

Inside that ring of light, a man was standing.

Dressed in a black double-breasted suit, his back is quiet, as if sinking into the darkness of the night.

Above his head, a pitch-black umbrella was opened, looking out of place beneath the clear night sky.

From the edge of the umbrella, droplets reflecting the light occasionally fall in silent threads, slightly swaying the shadow within the circle.

Even as footsteps approach, he does not move a muscle.

Only the fingertips gripping the handle of the umbrella stand out white, existing as the only certain physical matter in the silence.