The bench wood is dark and slick, reflecting the overhead light in shallow puddles. At the end of the bench, a single leather glove rests, its fingers curled inward as if waiting for a hand that won't arrive. Commuters have formed a quiet semi-circle around it, their coats and bags acting as a low, shared canopy against the mid-morning drizzle. The rain drips steadily from the shelter's overhang, hitting the wet ground with a soft, rhythmic patter. The glove’s stitching, fine copper wire, catches the diffused light, causing the metal to pulse with a faint, iridescent sheen. A metallic scent, sharp and clean, rises from the wet leather, a scent of copper and damp earth. No one speaks; the preservation of the object seems a quiet, unspoken agreement among strangers.
drizzle · tender