The Umbrella That Said Stay

How it begins

The umbrella said stay.

Mr. Reed looked up and down the empty bus shelter.

There was nobody else.

"I beg your pardon?"

Stay.

He had driven the village bus for thirty-six years. Objects had rattled, squeaked and occasionally caught fire in his presence. None had offered conversation.

He lifted the red umbrella from the bench.

A label inside said: Opens when needed.

Mr. Reed pressed the button.

Nothing happened.

Rain tapped on the shelter roof.

"I need to go home."

The umbrella remained closed.

He pressed harder.

Still nothing.

Mrs. Lane arrived carrying a shopping bag with a hole in it. An orange rolled beneath the bench.

Mr. Reed retrieved it before it reached the puddle.

"Waiting for the bus?"

"Force of habit," he said.

"The new service doesn't come until eleven."

"I know."

He knew every timetable in the village. Knowing them had become easier than deciding where he wanted to go.

Mrs. Lane examined the umbrella.

"Looks useful."

"It has opinions."

"Don't we all."

He tried the button again.

The umbrella gave a small, patient cough.

Mrs. Lane did not appear surprised. She had lived in the village long enough to classify most peculiar events as weather.

"What does it want?"

"I'm not sure."

The rain grew heavier.

Mr. Reed looked at her leaking shopping bag.

"You can wait with me."

The umbrella opened.

A perfect red circle spread above them.

They stared at it.

Under its shelter, the rain sounded softer.

Mr. Reed thought of his quiet kitchen, the newspaper folded beside one cup, the hours he had been calling peaceful because he could not find another polite word.

Mrs. Lane put the orange back in her bag.

"I would like that," she said.

The umbrella tilted slightly, making room.

For the first time since retiring, Mr. Reed stopped checking the time.

The bus would arrive when it arrived.