She’s squatted off to the side of the playground contemplating a puddle; muddy brown eyes blankly stare back at her from shallow, semi-murky depths. The patched up umbrella that rests in the crook of her arm hardly protects her from the rain, not that she was making any effort to stay dry anyway. Damp brown ringlets of hair are clumped around the sides of her face like moss on a cliff side, droplets of water falling, falling, plop. Small squelches and squeaks made by her yellow rubber boots accompany even the slightest changes in weight that she makes.
A bigger shadow suddenly engulfs her own. No more rain is falling on her head, now sheltered by a giant red umbrella. The man carrying it pulls the collar of his coat higher up around his neck.
It’s too cold, he thinks offhandedly, before speaking.
“Nothing’s going to come out of there, Nikita.”
The girl looks up, brown eyes meeting blue. “But it’s still staring at me,” she replies.
“What is?”
“That.” She points to her reflection in the water.
He is silent for awhile, then kneels down to meet her eye to eye.
“Child, have you forgotten? This is the form you chose.”
She blinks. Sudden understanding. She looks back to her puddle. “Oh.”
He holds out his free hand to her. “Shall we be off then?”
“Okay.” She grasps his hand with both of her own, and the patchwork umbrella rolls away. They rise and walk away, the sound of steady loafer prints and squelchy rubber boots following their path in the patter of rain.
