Puddle Reflections

Arthur stood under the awning of the old liquor store, the fluorescent hum overhead doing little to ward off the chill. Rain hammered the street, turning the cracked asphalt into a mirror for the city's frantic, pulsing colors. Reds, blues, garish yellows bled into the puddles, swirling like oil slicks. He pulled the collar of his worn jacket tighter, the damp seeped into his bones. His eyes, the color of tired steel, tracked the sporadic headlights cutting through the downpour.

Another Tuesday. Always a Tuesday, it seemed. These were the nights Liam called, or didn't call, which was worse. Arthur tasted the metallic tang of impending dread, familiar as the stale cigarette smoke clinging to his coat. Twenty-five years of pulling shifts, of the smell of ink and solvent, had left his shoulders permanently hunched. He watched a lone taxi splash past, its yellow glare momentarily blinding, then gone. The neon sign for the diner across the street, "EAT," flickered, the 'A' sometimes refusing to light, making it 'ET'. He always found that funny, in a grim sort of way.

Then he saw him. Liam, head down, shoulders slumped, cutting through the reflections like a ghost. He was soaked through, a cheap hoodie plastered to his thin frame. Arthur didn't move, didn't call out. He just watched, a silent sentinel. Liam stopped a few yards away, kicked at a puddle, sending a spray of light-speckled water into the air. He looked up, finally, his eyes hollowed out.

"Hey," Liam said, his voice flat, barely audible over the rain.

"Hey," Arthur replied, a rough rasp. He didn't ask "What's wrong?" He didn't need to. The answer was etched in the sag of Liam's jaw, the way his hands were shoved deep in his pockets.

"Got fired," Liam mumbled, not looking at his father, but at the distorted reflections of a red neon bar sign. "Again."

Arthur just grunted, a low sound that could mean anything. Disappointment. Understanding. Something far older. He remembered his own dismissals, the cold walk home, the shame that curdled in his gut. He'd never told Liam about those. What was the point? Just another weight for the kid to carry. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a crumpled pack of smokes. Offered one to Liam.

Liam took it, his fingers fumbling. Arthur lit both, shielding the flame from the wind with cupped hands. The cherry glowed, a small, defiant spark in the vast, wet dark. They stood there, side by side, the silence stretching between them, thick with the unspoken. The rain softened a little, a steady hiss rather than a drumbeat. The neon from the pawn shop, a sickly green, painted streaks on their faces.

Liam took a drag, coughed, then steadied himself. He looked older tonight, Arthur thought. The kid was a fighter, in his own quiet way. Always had been. A stubborn streak, inherited from who knows where. Probably him. It hurt to see him stumble, to know that the world just kept kicking, and sometimes, you just had to take it.

"They ain't worth a damn, anyway," Arthur said, the words gruff, unexpected. "That job, I mean." He flicked ash into a puddle. "Plenty of other places that'll treat you like a man, not some goddamn cog."

Liam nodded slowly, absorbing the words, not looking at his father, but at the shifting patterns of light on the ground. "Yeah," he said, a breath of a word.

A gust of wind pushed a wave of cold air down the street, making them both shiver. Arthur knew what Liam needed, and it wasn't a lecture. It was just... standing here. Breathing the same damp air. Knowing someone was there. Sometimes, that was all anyone ever needed. A silent anchor.

"Come on," Arthur said, tossing his half-smoked cigarette into a bright red reflection. "My place. Got some leftover stew. And coffee." He didn't wait for a reply, just started walking, slowly, deliberately, towards the distant glow of his apartment building.

Liam hesitated for a second, watching the last of the cigarette hiss out in the puddle, the neon light momentarily distorted by the tiny ripples. Then, he followed. Not close behind, but not lagging, either. Just walking, through the rain, through the city's electric, watery embrace, towards something that felt, for the first time that night, like a faint, steady pulse.