Standing in the rain, the protagonist holds an umbrella that no longer fulfills its purpose — its fabric is gone, leaving only a skeletal frame. Around him, other versions of himself repeat the same gesture, each clinging to the illusion of protection. The city dissolves into mist, and time feels suspended, yet the action persists unchanged. The umbrella, once a shield, has become a relic — an object stripped of function but not of habit. The scene suggests a quiet absurdity: we continue to perform learned behaviors long after they have ceased to serve us, as if the memory of utility outweighs the reality of loss.
