He unlocked the door, stepped into the warm, dim hallway, and left a trail of footprints on the linoleum. The apartment was dark, small, and dry. He peeled off his wet things, hung the jacket on the shower rod, and made tea. From his window, he watched the last of the storm clouds drag themselves over the moon.

He had expected a miserable trudge. Instead, he had gotten a pilgrimage. A reminder that the world, even when it's trying to drown you, is still full of tiny, spectacular moments. He looked at his phone: 1:17 AM. No messages. No emergencies. Just the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the memory of a million raindrops.

When he finally reached his apartment building, the rain was beginning to ease. He stood under the awning for a long moment, unwilling to go inside. His clothes were plastered to him. His fingers were wrinkled prunes. But his head was quiet.