The Umbrella He Left Behind

It had been raining all morning—soft, persistent, and cold. The kind of rain that soaks into your bones and your memories. Ayesha stood at the window of her small bookshop, watching as the raindrops clung to the glass like forgotten tears.

It had been two years since Saad had walked out of her life. Two years since he had said, “I can’t wait forever,” and left behind only an old, black umbrella.

She hadn’t touched it since. It stood in the corner of the shop, slightly bent, dusty, and waiting—just like she had been.

A bell jingled above the door, pulling her back to the present. A young woman, no older than twenty, stepped in, shaking rain from her jacket.

“Do you have any books by Elif Shafak?” she asked politely.

Ayesha nodded and pointed to a small display shelf. The girl wandered off, leaving Ayesha once again with her thoughts. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the handle of the umbrella, still propped against the counter.

Back then, she had believed love would be enough. That even if she didn’t say the words, Saad would understand. She had always been cautious with her heart—too cautious. Her parents had died young, and she’d learned early how fragile attachments could be.

But Saad had been different. He was loud where she was quiet, reckless where she was careful. He’d light up a room just by walking in, and for a time, he had lit up her world.

They met at a coffee shop. He had accidentally taken her cup.

“You ordered a caramel macchiato too?” he asked, flashing a boyish grin.

“No,” she’d replied, “But now that you’ve had mine, I guess you owe me one.”

He laughed. “Deal. But only if you sit with me while I drink it.”

She had, and they’d spent the next three years learning each other’s habits, fears, and dreams. He wanted to travel the world; she wanted to open a bookshop. They were different, but they found magic in those differences.

Until the day he asked her to come with him—to leave everything behind and go to Istanbul for a year.

“I want to write,” he said. “You can run your shop later.”

But she wasn’t ready to leave. The shop was her dream, her safety net.

“I can’t just run away,” she told him.

“I’m not asking you to run. I’m asking you to live.”

She couldn’t. And so, he left, in the rain, with that old umbrella. But he’d forgotten it at the door, and she hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw it away.

The young woman returned to the counter, holding The Forty Rules of Love. Ayesha wrapped it gently in brown paper.

“Do you believe in second chances?” the girl suddenly asked.

Ayesha looked up, startled. “Why do you ask?”

The girl shrugged. “Just wondering. My boyfriend left for London last year. I never told him how much I loved him. Now I think maybe it’s too late.”

Ayesha paused, then smiled faintly. “It’s never too late—unless you choose to stay silent.”

The girl nodded, eyes glistening, and left with her book and a little more hope.

Later that evening, just before closing, the bell above the door rang again. Ayesha looked up—and felt the world stop.

Saad stood in the doorway, soaked from the rain, holding a different umbrella. His beard was slightly longer, his eyes the same.

“I didn’t know if you’d still be here,” he said softly.

Ayesha couldn’t speak.

“I published my book,” he continued. “It’s called The Girl in the Bookshop. My editor thought it was fiction. But every word was about you.”

She blinked away tears.

“I came to see if you… if we… still had a story left.”

Ayesha glanced at the old umbrella, still leaning where he had left it.

“You forgot something,” she whispered, handing it to him.

He took it, then gently placed it back in the corner.

“I think I want to leave it there,” he said. “This time, I want to stay.”

She stepped forward, and this time, she didn’t hesitate