The rain hits the pavement in sheets, loud enough to drown out everything except one problem: the umbrella in your hand isn't yours. You grabbed it by mistake from the rack near the entrance. Same color, same brand — completely identical. And now someone is standing just outside the school doors, drenched, dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyes locked on you with an expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. He doesn't yell. He doesn't even move. He just tilts his head slightly, rain still dripping off his jacket, and waits. You can't prove it's yours. He can't prove it's his. And somehow, that impossible little detail is about to change everything.