[IRAYA]

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I didn’t think about it often, but for some reason, that day—the day I first met that stranger—kept slipping into my dreams when I least expected it.

It was four years ago, the first time I set foot in this country. I remember how the sky was heavy with clouds, dark and swollen with rain. The wind had a bite to it, cold and sharp, cutting through my jacket as I wandered aimlessly down unfamiliar streets.

I had just arrived, and everything felt foreign: the buildings, the language, even the way people walked by with hurried steps, heads down, umbrellas clutched tightly in their hands.

Back then, I was young, wide-eyed, and brimming with curiosity about the world outside my own. I wasn’t used to the rain. Where I came from, rain was warm, soft, and gentle, but here, it was relentless, pounding against the pavement as though it had a grudge against the earth.

I didn’t really know why I decided to go for a walk that day. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to stay cooped up in my apartment, or maybe I just needed to feel the world around me. Either way, I found myself wandering farther and farther, my shoes soaking wet, the cold seeping into my bones.

And that’s when I saw him.

He was slumped on the side of the street, half-hidden by the shadow of an alleyway. His clothes were soaked, clinging to his skin, and his face was marred by bruises and cuts.

There was something raw about him, something that made me hesitate as I passed by. He looked out of place, as if he didn’t belong there—battered and worn in a way that didn’t match the bustling city around us.

For a moment, I considered walking past him. After all, I didn’t know him, and I wasn’t sure what had happened. But something about the way he sat there, hunched over in the rain, made me stop.

Maybe it was the way his hand pressed against his side as if trying to hold himself together, or maybe it was the quiet defiance in his eyes as he stared down at the pavement, refusing to show weakness despite his obvious pain.

I took a step closer, unsure of what to say or do. He didn’t look up. He didn’t acknowledge my presence at all. He was just . . . there, like a forgotten shadow in the rain.

Without thinking too much, I reached into my bag and pulled out a handkerchief. It wasn’t much, just a small piece of fabric embroidered with tiny flowers, and my initials, something my mother had given me before I left home.

I hesitated for a second, then knelt beside him, holding it out. "Here," I said softly. "For the blood."

He finally looked at me then, and for a brief moment, our eyes met. His were dark blue eyes, guarded, and filled with something I couldn’t quite name—pain, perhaps, or anger, or maybe something deeper that I wasn’t meant to understand.

He didn’t take the handkerchief at first, just stared at it as if it was something foreign. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I reached forward and gently pressed it against the cut on his cheek, dabbing away the blood. He flinched slightly but didn’t pull away.

We stayed like that for a moment, the rain falling around us in a steady rhythm. I didn’t say anything else, and neither did he. It wasn’t exactly a conversation—it was something quieter, something unspoken but strangely significant.

When I was done, I pulled back and handed him the handkerchief. "You should clean the rest of your wounds," I said. "And maybe see a doctor."

He didn’t respond, just took the handkerchief with a quiet nod. I noticed his hands then—calloused, rough, and trembling slightly. He was clearly in pain, but there was a stubbornness in him, a refusal to ask for help.

Before I could think too much about it, I noticed the way the rain kept pouring down on him, soaking him further. Without a second thought, I opened my umbrella and held it over his head. He looked up at me again, this time with a hint of surprise in his eyes.

"You’ll catch a cold," I said simply.

For a moment, I thought he might say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he just sat there, letting me shield him from the rain.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. Maybe it was only a few minutes, or maybe it was longer. Time felt strange in that moment, as if the world around us had slowed down. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t stay there forever.

"I have to go," I said quietly, standing up and handing him the umbrella. "Keep it. You need it more than I do."

He looked at the umbrella, then back at me, as if trying to decide whether to accept it or not. In the end, he didn’t say a word. He just took it, holding it awkwardly in his hand.

"Take care," I said softly before turning away and walking back into the rain.

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I didn’t look back. I didn’t ask for his name, and he didn’t ask for mine. It was just a brief moment, a fleeting encounter in a foreign city, something I thought I would forget as time passed.

So why had I dreamed of him last night? Why did that moment, so long ago, still linger in my mind as if it had just happened yesterday?

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep and the strange haze that came with it. The dream had felt so real, so vivid, as if I had been back there again, standing in the rain with him.

I couldn’t quite remember the face of that man, obscured as it was by wounds, streaks of blood, and smudges of dirt. His long, damp hair clung to his skin, making it even harder to discern his features.

"I wonder what happened to him," I thought quietly, the memory lingering like a fading echo.