While tidying the storage room, Lin Wei comes across that blue plaid umbrella. Its ribs are rusted, but half a stain still lingers on the canopy, left behind when Jiang Yi spilled milk tea on it that summer.
They once shared the umbrella through countless rainy days. Jiang Yi always tilted it toward her, letting half his own shoulder get soaked as he smiled and said, “It’s fine.” But later, the rain never stopped, and they drifted apart. He said, “We’re not right for each other,” his voice as light as raindrops, yet the words weighed heavily on her heart.
Lin Wei opens the umbrella. Sunlight slips through a hole, scattering tiny patches of light across the ground, just like those fleeting, scattered moments of tenderness she could never hold on to. She stands there for a long time, clutching the umbrella, and finally understands: some umbrellas hold memories when opened, but once folded, they become a lifetime of regret.
