The rain started around 7:30—soft at first, the kind that makes umbrellas seem optional—then turned serious, hammering sidewalks and streaking yellow taxi lights into long liquid ribbons. Steam rose from manhole covers. Neon signs in diner windows blurred like watercolor. The air smelled of wet asphalt, hot pretzels from a corner cart, and the faint metallic promise of more downpour to come.
