The incessant drizzle tapping against the window masked the muffled honking of taxis below. Umbrellas stood out like small patches of bright colour against the drab grey of winter, bobbing their way down 27th street. 36 floors up, Yifan sat by the windowpane, watching crystal droplets leave trails of glistening water down the cool glass. Cold, metallic buildings rose up from the clumps of terracotta roofs and whitewashed walls, miniscule windows of fluorescent light shining through the gloom. The faint scent of raspberries floated over from the candles on the shelf, leaving tangy traces of hazy summer nights. The low murmur of the television echoed from the next room, streams of dialogue running as background noise. He stepped down from the balcony seat, feeling his feet sink into the furry rug. Trudging over to the unmade bed, he flopped down. The sheets felt like yesterday, full of jumbled memories and messy goodbyes. Flicking the light off, he sank into the linen, cold as the drab winter and warm as the remnants of summer nights.