Rain started halfway through the drive. By the time I reached their neighborhood, it fell in sheets, blurring the streetlights into trembling halos. As I turned onto the main road near the old tram stop, something caught my eye. Two figures stood under the narrow awning of a closed pharmacy, bent against the wind, holding plastic bags like shields.
My chest tightened for reasons I could not explain. I slowed down. The headlights swept over them, and time seemed to crack open.
It was my parents.
My mother held a photograph against her coat, pressed to her heart as if it were proof of existence. I recognized it instantly. My university graduation picture. My father stood slightly in front of her, trying to block the rain with a jacket that had seen too many winters.
I stopped the car. I lowered the window. Cold rain struck my face.
“Mom. Dad.”
They froze. Their eyes widened, not with relief, but with fear so raw it hurt to see. My father spoke first, his voice barely surviving the rain. “Matthew. Son. You were not supposed to see this.”
I stepped out of the car, shoes sinking into water. “Why are you here. Why are you not at home.”