There is a moment, just before the rain becomes true rain and the sun becomes memory, when the world holds its breath.
They stood inside that moment: feet in blooming grass, shoulders beneath a red umbrella that had weathered more than weather. The sunset was not something they watched, but something they felt: a warmth pulling away, slow and deliberate.
Around them, the trees had nothing to prove. The mountain shadows stretched long, indifferent to who came or went. Below the hill, fog stirred like an old thought trying to return.
They hadn’t come to remember, nor to forget. Only to be still long enough that the world could catch up to them, or they to it.
And so they stood: one silhouette in a shifting world, a red dot in a landscape that would go on blooming, raining, and fading, with or without them.