The afternoon wore a pale gray sky, heavy with clouds that draped softly over the city like a woolen blanket. There was no thunder. No wind. Just a steady drizzle falling from above like whispered apologies from the clouds.
Jihoon stepped out of the small library tucked between a bakery and a clinic, the kind of place few people knew about. He had spent the past hour browsing quietly through the shelves, running his fingers along spines with faded lettering and dust-smudged covers. He hadn't gone in intending to borrow anything—but one book, a thin collection of quiet essays about solitude and stillness, had gently asked him to stay. So he had.
Now, with the book tucked under his arm and his tote bag slung over one shoulder, Jihoon paused under the library's small awning. The rain was soft but persistent, turning the sidewalk into a mirror of light and shadows. People passed with umbrellas, some shared between two, others tilted to protect laptops or folded newspapers.
He pulled out his compact umbrella, flicked it open, and stepped out into the rain. The familiar sound of water hitting fabric met his ears, steady and calming. It was a sound he loved—like nature's own kind of white noise.
The walk to the bus stop wasn't far, just a few hundred meters down a quiet street lined with gingko trees. Their leaves had turned yellow early this year, and some clung wetly to benches and lampposts, while others swirled slowly toward the drains. Jihoon's steps were unhurried. He liked rainy days. They made the city seem gentler, slower. Like everyone was given permission to breathe.
At the bus stop, a small shelter stood beneath a flickering LED timetable. A few people were already waiting. An elderly woman hunched over a metal trolley filled with groceries wrapped in plastic. A teenage boy with dyed hair stood leaning against the glass wall, bobbing his head to music through his oversized headphones. A woman in a gray suit scrolled through her phone, eyebrows furrowed as if trying to make the rain move faster with sheer willpower.
Jihoon stepped to one side of the shelter, careful not to bump anyone with his umbrella. He folded it and shook off the droplets before leaning casually against the metal pole, letting his shoulders relax.
And then, from the far end of the street, he saw her.
A young woman, early twenties at most, walking briskly toward the stop. She had no umbrella—just a slim folder held above her head like a paper shield. Her tote bag hung low on her side, the bottom corner already soaked dark. She hurried, her shoes splashing through puddles as she tried to dodge raindrops that were already winning the battle.
She ducked under the shelter with a quiet breath and quickly checked the folder she was carrying. The edges of the papers inside were curling, the ink beginning to smudge in places. She pressed the folder to her chest and wiped at it with the sleeve of her already-wet hoodie.
Jihoon didn't speak right away. He watched her movements—careful, tired, frustrated—but silent. She didn't complain. She didn't sigh loudly. She simply stood, holding onto the one thing she'd clearly tried so hard to protect.
He glanced at his own umbrella, still dripping lightly by his feet. Then back at her. No bus in sight yet. The display above said 12 minutes.
He took a quiet step toward her.
"Excuse me," he said gently.
The woman turned, startled. Her face was young, pale from the cold. A few strands of damp hair stuck to her cheeks.
"Would you like to use this?" Jihoon asked, holding up his umbrella.
She blinked. "Oh… I mean, it's okay. I'm already wet."
"It's still raining," Jihoon replied, his voice calm. "And your folder… it looks like it needs a second chance."
She glanced down at it, then let out a small laugh—barely audible, but real. "Yeah… my final presentation notes. I printed them this morning, and then forgot my umbrella. Rookie mistake."
Jihoon smiled. "We all have days like that."
After a moment of hesitation, she accepted the umbrella with both hands, bowing slightly. "I'll give it back before I get on the bus."
"No need," Jihoon said. "It's yours now. In case the rain follows you home."
Her expression softened. "Seriously?"
He nodded. "Someone gave me an umbrella once, too. I didn't return it. But I remember the feeling."
She didn't say anything at first, just held the umbrella to her chest as if it weighed more than it did—not because of the metal and fabric, but because of the kindness folded inside it.
"Thank you," she said, voice quiet. "I was starting to feel a little invisible today."
"You're not," Jihoon said gently. "Some days just make us forget."
The bus arrived at last, its headlights cutting through the gray like two small suns. The doors hissed open, and the other passengers moved toward it.
The woman turned back to him before boarding. "Thank you again," she said. "Not just for this. But… for noticing."
She climbed aboard and sat by the window. As the bus pulled away, she raised the umbrella briefly, tapping it once against the glass—her version of a wave.
Ding!
[Kindness Opportunity Completed!]
Reward: 35,000 KRW
Jihoon stood quietly under the shelter. The drizzle continued, seeping into the sleeves of his coat, but he barely noticed. His hands were empty, but he didn't feel the loss.
His phone buzzed softly in his pocket.
[Daily Kindness Reflection]
"Kindness doesn't always wait for a thank you—it simply covers someone when they forget to protect themselves."
He looked up at the clouded sky.
And even though it was still raining, he swore it felt just a little warmer.
Yeah.
That sounded about right.
One small act at a time.
End of Chapter 59
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