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The Letters in the Rain
Marco wanted the letters in the post box before the rain. The path up the hill was easy in the sun and slick when it was wet, and the envelopes were only paper. He left the house while the street was still bright on his face.
He kept the letters inside his jacket, flat against his chest. At the bottom of the hill the square opened up, wide, with no tree in it. The post box stood on the far side, by the bakery. Marco could see it. He could also see the cloud coming over the roofs behind him, faster than he wanted.
He walked on. Then the light went thin. A few drops darkened the stones, separate at first, then close together. He stopped at the edge of the square. The bakery awning was a short walk behind him.