The rains fell like little teardrops, spattering on the pavement and bouncing off the cafe umbrellas.

The old man’s arthritic hands painfully pounded out each and every letter.

Glidna looked around for the man who said he would be here. Her hair matted to her smooth skin and stuck there, sopping wet but ethereally beautiful.

The typewriter seemed to develop yet another film of rust. One layer for every year of his life.

Over the course of her life, Glidna had uncovered that she was never very much inclined to waiting, and that it was a waste of her time to be doing nothing while someone else was being late. But the man would be here.

The old man smiled grimly with a look of lost joy and possible nostalgia. He remembered. Yes, he remembered the feeling.

Glidna spun her head, to and fro, scattering raindrops along the tile.

The ache in his arm.

She squinted.

The old man wheezed as he typed out the last few words.

There he was.

In his last breath, the old man vanished. Glidna smiled.