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Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus, and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
— Julius Caesar, Act I Scene 2
I laughed. Then I almost cried.
Maybe that’s what we do. We take things — not out of greed, but out of loneliness. We borrow meaning from objects, from people, from places. We hold on. And when we finally learn the truth, it’s too late to give it back without explanation.
Last week, I found it again — tucked behind the winter coats, bent at the rib, faded from grey to a tired sort of beige. A forgotten umbrella. I remember the day I took it. It was raining of course, because these stories always start with rain. blogul anastase
He looked at me over his cup. Smiled with half his mouth. And said:
That’s when I saw it. Leaning against the coat rack. Unclaimed. A bit sad, like a stray dog waiting for someone to notice it. I laughed
So I’ll keep the umbrella. And every time it rains, I’ll think of the old man running through the storm with open arms.
Five years ago, almost to the day. A Tuesday. I was at the "La Scuar" coffee shop, the one with the creaky floorboards and the old man who always reads the same newspaper twice. I had finished my espresso, paid with the last coins in my pocket, and stood by the door like a fool, watching the downpour thrash the pavement. We take things — not out of greed, but out of loneliness
The Umbrella That Wasn't Mine Posted by Anastase on 3 April, 2026