Rain started halfway through the drive. By the time I reached their neighborhood, it fell in sheets, blurring the streetlights into trembling halos. As I turned onto the main road near the old tram stop, something caught my eye. Two figures stood under the narrow awning of a closed pharmacy, bent against the wind, holding plastic bags like shields.

My chest tightened for reasons I could not explain. I slowed down. The headlights swept over them, and time seemed to crack open.

It was my parents.

My mother held a photograph against her coat, pressed to her heart as if it were proof of existence. I recognized it instantly. My university graduation picture. My father stood slightly in front of her, trying to block the rain with a jacket that had seen too many winters.

I stopped the car. I lowered the window. Cold rain struck my face.