What We Leave Behind

The rain had been falling for three days straight, a relentless curtain of water that blurred the city lights into smeary impressions. Elias stood on the sidewalk outside Sarah's apartment building, watching the water cascade from the gutters and pool around his already-soaked boots. In his hands, he held her woolen hat—that ridiculous red beret she'd bought in Paris and wore through two winters together, laughing when he called it her artist affectation.

A stray cat materialized from the alley, shaking droplets from its calico coat before winding between Elias's legs, purring with desperate optimism. He knelt, letting the creature butt its head against his palm, finding an unexpected comfort in this small living thing that wanted nothing from him but warmth.

"She's not coming back down," a voice called out.

Elias looked up. An older woman stood in the building's doorway, holding the leash of an ancient golden retriever that sat with the patient weariness of creatures who've seen too much. The dog thumped its tail once, twice, against the concrete.

"I know," Elias said.

"You've been out here an hour. The dog's been watching you from the window. He worries."

"A worrying dog?" Elias managed a faint smile. "That's new."

"We've all got our burdens." She stepped out into the rain, offering him a cigarette from a crumpled pack. "The girl—Sarah—is she worth standing in the rain for?"

Elias looked at the hat in his hands, felt the lingering warmth of her scalp where she'd last pulled it off three days ago, that final morning when the coffee was cold and the silence between them had grown too thick to bridge. "She was," he said. "She isn't anymore."

The cat meowed indignantly as a particularly heavy drops splashed its nose. The woman's dog shuffled closer, pressing its warm flank against Elias's knee.

"Then give it back," she said, gesturing to the hat. "Or throw it away. But don't stand in the water holding onto something that's already gone."

Elias stood slowly, his joints stiff from the cold. He walked to the building's donation bin, paused once with his hand on the metal door, and let the hat drop into the darkness. The cat meowed again—whether in approval or disappointment, he couldn't say.

He walked home through the downpour, empty-handed for the first time in years, and realized he didn't mind the cold.