It’s raining again.

He doesn’t like the rain.

He stands in front of the entrance of his apartment building, extending his free hand to feel the wetness of fallen droplets, his other hand clutching his black umbrella tightly. He bites his lip anxiously and lets out a deep sigh.

It’s not like he has always hated the rain—he used to love it when he was young.

When he was a wee child, he used to run outside the door happily as soon as the sky began to cry. He had no use for umbrella back then, because he used to race through the curtain of water and played in the puddles, enjoying the tickling of wet grass under his bare feet. And when he returned inside the safety of his warm home, drenched and slightly shivering from cold with a big smile on his lips, his mother would chide him and wrap him in a fluffy towel before making a cup of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows for him.

Even as he got older, he still loved the rain. As a teenager with heavy textbooks in his backpack that must not get wet, it was a bit inconvenient to walk to or go back from school when it was raining. His friends would complain and curse the weather, but not him—he would take out his trusty folded umbrella and walked out of the building with a smile. He loved the smell of wet soil and he loved to listen to the calming pitter-patter of raindrops falling on concrete, humming a random song along with the nature’s melody.

But in the last few years, he has come to hate the rain.

Because when it rains, he must open his heavy black umbrella and walks with wary heart—slow, clumsy and fearful of falling down. He must take step by step extra carefully—every bump and every hole, and every single object on the road was an obstacle for his journey. He has stumbled many times and even more often when it rains—especially in the early days when he h