hoodedponcho
When the rain hit the city, it didn't ask for permission.
It poured through neon alleys and over rusted rooftops, soaking everything - except her.
She walked with a quiet confidence, the storm slipping off her hooded poncho like whispers down silk. No umbrella, no hurry. Just purpose. Just style.
"Hey!" I called out, not sure why. Maybe it was the color - burnt orange, stitched like dusk on fire. Maybe it was how she moved, like she belonged in stories, not streets.
She turned. Just slightly. Enough for me to see the eyes.
"You okay?" I asked, because that's what you say when you're not really sure what you're saying.
She smiled - the kind that makes you believe she knows something you don't.
"This city's a storm," she said. "But you don't have to get wet to survive it."
Then she walked on, vanishing into the blur of rain and smoke and city lights.
Later, I searched for her, like a fool chasing magic. But all I found was a website -
hoodedponcho.com - filled with pieces just like hers. Ponchos that looked like adventure and warmth, rebellion and comfort.
And even though I never saw her again, every time I pull on that poncho, I swear I feel the storm pause - just for me.