The Same Umbrella

It was raining.

I put my clear umbrella into the stand in front of the store.

It was a clear umbrella.

The handle was black.

I thought there was no mark on it.

When I finished shopping and went outside, there were more umbrellas like mine in the stand.

Several clear umbrellas stood at the same height.

They all had black handles, and the wet plastic shone in the same way.

I reached for one, then stopped.

One umbrella had a scuffed tip on its handle.

One had old tape wrapped around the end.

One had a rib that opened a little outward.

One still held a large drop of water on the inside.

When I had left mine there, they had all been just clear umbrellas.

Someone came out of the store.

Without hesitating, they took one umbrella.

Before opening it, they gave it a light shake.

Water fell onto the tile by the entrance.

After they left, the gap in the umbrella stand changed a little.

That was when I remembered the morning.

On the station stairs, I had knocked the handle of my umbrella against the wall.

There had been a small sound, leaving a faint white line near the base.

I took one umbrella in my hand.

There was a faint line near the base of the handle.

When I held it, only the place where my thumb rested felt a little rough.

This was definitely mine.

I opened the umbrella and left the store.

The rain had weakened a little.

When I looked back, there were still many clear umbrellas in the stand.

But not one of them was the same umbrella.