The rain fell with constant fury, as if the sky wanted to wash every corner of the city clean. The asphalt gleamed under the streetlights, and small rivers ran through the gutters toward the sewers, carrying leaves, cigarette butts, and the dust accumulated from the previous days. Inside my car, the heater worked silently, enveloping me in a pleasant warmth. The soft music coming from the radio seemed to isolate me from the storm, as if I were in a bubble.

It was an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, and I was returning from work after a meeting that had gone better than expected. I had a folder full of documents in the passenger seat and a to-do list in my head. But all that came to a screeching halt when, at the corner of the avenue, I saw a small figure cowering in the rain.

She was no more than eight years old. Her dark hair was plastered to her face with water, and the jacket she was wearing was so thin it felt like paper. In her hands, she held a bouquet of wilted flowers, wrapped in already wrinkled clear plastic. Her canvas shoes were completely soaked.

I slowed down and, without thinking twice, parked at the curb. I stared at her for a few seconds. I could have continued on, like so many others do, but something about the way she clutched the flowers to her chest, as if they were her only treasure, stopped me in my tracks.

I turned off the engine and opened the door. The cold wind hit me immediately, accompanied by the incessant drumming of the rain. I approached.

“Hey, mister!” she called over the sound of the downpour. “Don’t you want some flowers for your wife?” They’re very pretty… I’ll give them to you for cheap.

Her voice was weak, yet she tried to sound cheerful.

I took off my jacket and put it over her shoulders. It was huge for her small frame, but at least it covered her.

“Here,” I said, handing her my umbrella as well. “You’re going to get sick like this.”

She looked at me as if I’d given her a diamond.

“No, sir… my mom says not to accept things from strangers.”

“Your mom’s right,” I replied, “but this isn’t a gift. It’s a loan while you work.”

She hesitated, but ended up accepting the umbrella.

“How many flowers do you have?” I asked.

“Twenty bouquets, sir. One thousand pesos each… but I can give them to you for eight hundred because they’re a little damaged from the rain.”

I took out my wallet and handed her twenty thousand pesos.

“I’ll take them all.”

She opened her mouth as if she were about to say something, but nothing came out.

“All of them? But… what are you going to do with so many flowers?”

“Distribute them,” I replied. “To the people who pass by. That way everyone will have a nicer day.”

A shy smile spread across her face.

“My mom won’t believe this.”

“Where’s your mom?”

“At home… taking care of my little brother. He’s sick. That’s why I went out today, so she wouldn’t get wet.”

A knot tightened in my stomach.

“Keep your jacket and umbrella. Now, run home. Your mom must be worried.”

She hugged the bills to her chest, took a few steps, and before turning the corner, shouted:

“Thank you, sir! God bless you!”

I watched her walk away, now protected by my red umbrella. I returned to the car soaked, but with a strange feeling: a mixture of sadness, tenderness, and a slight hope.

I turned on the heater. The scent of flowers filled the car, and as I began handing them out to strangers on the street, I felt something had changed inside me, although I still didn’t know exactly what.