Jo kept the note on her nightstand for days.
It wasn't much — just a few sentences scribbled in neat, slanted handwriting — but it felt like something more. A message meant for her. A soft voice speaking through the storm.
She found herself thinking about it at odd moments — while grading essays, sipping tea in the early morning hush, or staring out the window as rain tapped gently against the glass. Who had left it? What storm had they been going through?
And why did it feel like they'd reached right into her life and said, I see you ?
On the next rainy day, Jo stood by the window watching the sky darken. She remembered how soaked she'd been last time, how lucky she'd felt to find that umbrella. And now, as the first drops began to fall, she felt an unexpected urge — to respond.
She pulled out a clean umbrella from the stand by the door. It was hers — a faded blue one with a crooked handle and a small tear near the edge. Not fancy, not new, but dependable. She folded the paper crane carefully and tucked it back into the envelope, then added something of her own: a pressed forget-me-not flower from her garden, still delicate and blue even after weeks of drying.
She wrote:
"To whoever finds this — thank you for the reminder.
Rain does pass. So do hard days. I hope this helps someone today.
– J."
Then, beneath that, she added a line from one of her favorite poems:
"Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth."
She tied the red ribbon around the handle again — tighter this time — and walked out into the drizzle.
By the time she reached Bean & Bloom Café , the rain had picked up. She hesitated for only a moment before leaning the umbrella against the wall beside the chalkboard sign, just where she'd found the first one.
Then she stepped inside, ordered a lavender latte, and sat by the window.
She didn't expect anything to happen.
But when she came back two days later — because she couldn't help checking — the umbrella was gone.
In its place was another.
This one was striped — navy and white — with a wooden handle carved with tiny grooves. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was a small peppermint candy and a Polaroid photo of a rainy street somewhere unfamiliar. There was also a note written in the same slanted handwriting as before:
"That flower reminded me of my grandmother. Thank you.
Here's something for you."
Beneath it, he'd added:
"Storms do pass. But sometimes, they bring gifts too."
Jo stared at the note, heart thumping quietly in her chest.
He'd replied.
Whoever he was, he'd read what she'd written. He'd seen the flower, remembered it, connected it to something personal. And he'd responded.
She slipped the peppermint into her pocket and held the photo between her fingers. It was just a snapshot — a puddle reflecting the gray sky, a bicycle leaned against a lamppost, a café across the street with steam rising from the roof. But it felt like a window into his world.
She smiled without realizing it.
From that day on, the umbrellas became part of her rhythm.
Every time the sky turned gray, every time the clouds rolled in, Jo would check the usual spots — the café awning, the subway stairs, the bench outside the library. Sometimes she'd leave an umbrella. Sometimes she'd find one waiting.
Each one carried a gift, a quote, a memory.
A pressed maple leaf. A quote from Rilke. A sketch of a bird. A recipe for hot cocoa. A joke torn from a napkin. A seashell from the coast. A ticket stub from a jazz concert.
They never met.
But somehow, over time, they built something together — a quiet friendship stitched together by rain, notes, and the things they couldn't say out loud.
Until one day, the rain stopped.
Weeks passed without a drop. The skies stayed stubbornly clear. Jo checked the café every morning, hoping. She even brought umbrellas just in case, but there was never one waiting.
No reply.
No sign.
And slowly, quietly, she started to wonder if the exchange was over.