Five years ago, almost to the day. A Tuesday. I was at the "La Scuar" coffee shop, the one with the creaky floorboards and the old man who always reads the same newspaper twice. I had finished my espresso, paid with the last coins in my pocket, and stood by the door like a fool, watching the downpour thrash the pavement.

He looked at me over his cup. Smiled with half his mouth. And said:

Maybe that’s what we do. We take things — not out of greed, but out of loneliness. We borrow meaning from objects, from people, from places. We hold on. And when we finally learn the truth, it’s too late to give it back without explanation.

“That was mine, băiete. I left it there on purpose, so I’d have an excuse to run out into the rain. I like getting wet. Reminds me I’m alive.”

So I’ll keep the umbrella. And every time it rains, I’ll think of the old man running through the storm with open arms.

Do you ever hold onto something for so long that you forget it was never yours to begin with?