One rainy street was much like another, it turned out. It didn't matter where in the world you were, whether it was city or town - it was the same.
People acted the same. They hustled and bustled, tugging coats around them, hoping that collars could be turned up and their necks could be saved from uncomfortable raindrops. Some - prepared ones - had umbrellas, using them as a more sophisticated method (supposedly). They wore smug smirks - until they bumped into one another.
Nobody had perfected walking down a street of multiple umbrellas.
They all rushed, eager to escape the rain, tugging on the hands of little ones who had discovered puddles.
There were many differences in the world, but in the rain, everyone acted the same way.
She had been to so many cities, seen so much rain. She had felt warm, Mediterranian rains, gentle against her skin. Torrential Scottish droplets had assaulted her, making a noise like the world was shouting. She had seen so much, felt so much.
She wasn't certain when rain had become her mission, when it had become such a part of her being, but that was who she was now. She was a part of the rain, she belonged to it as it belonged to her.
She would fade into the skies just as the clouds themselves disappeared, to perform the same dance elsewhere, to watch the same patterns repeat themselves, again and again.