YEAR V ll JULY

Heavy droplets of rain splattered downwards carelessly, beating the cement sidewalk of which you were traveling on. The late July humidity weighed down the city of Namimori, smoldering the city in an insufferably thick fog. Feeling the rain get heavier, you pulled your black umbrella closer to your form. Through your obfuscated vision, you saw a man running towards you, using a damp newspaper to protect himself from the unrelenting elements. He murmured a rough "watch it" as he shoved you over, continuing to run until he flagged down the approaching bus. The impact of his unexpected push displaced you a few steps to your right.

You quickly regained your footing and just when you thought you were in the clear, you felt the right side of your body quickly being soaked through by cold, murky water. As your reaction would have it, you began to search for the driver. You turned your head quickly and saw a middle-aged man driving, sitting smugly in his truck. Evidently, he could have swerved around the giant puddle, but you were too tired — much too tired to tell him off.

In little time, you arrived at your destination. Carefully, you climbed the steps while dispersing a group of people on their cellphones to reach the two glass doors. Standing just below the arch of the building — under the large, black letters that signified that you were indeed at the Namimori Ward Office - you retracted your umbrella slowly and shook the myriad of raindrops off. Your hands froze when you felt your heart skip a beat. Even through the overwhelming background noise, the thudding in your chest was loud and ever so rampant.

Did you really want to do this?

You shook your head. The decision was already made, and had been for more than two years already. You grasped the handle and carefully opened the glass door. Artificial lighting and the smell of air conditioning flooded your senses as you stepped in. You spotted an open seat, where a man in his late sixties sat. He lifted his hand to signal you over and you smiled in acknowledgement.

"You must need something important to come in this weather," the man chuckled as you sat down and placed your handbag on your lap. He angled his head to get a better look of the pouring rain outside. You brushed your hair behind your shoulder and hummed in response. "What can I do for you today, miss?"

It was just as you had rehearsed.

"I need divorce papers."

You kept your voice as flat as possible — as if none of this affected you. Like you hadn't spent every night tossing and turning thinking about today. Your head hung down slightly, and your hands found a loose thread on your button-down blouse to fiddle with.

"That seems to be all you young adults want these days," he sighed heavily. He pushed himself off his chair and headed over to the back to rummage through a wall that shelved many stacks of files. "Got any kids, miss?

The question startled you and you slowly looked up. Instinctively, you bit your lip. It wasn't the suddenness of the question, or even the prodding nature of it that took you back . Instead, it was the guilt that consumed you every time your mind lingered to that subject.

Kids.

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Just one."

"Girl?"

"Boy."

"How old?"

"One in a few months."

"I know that certainly, your decisions are in no way, my business, miss," he spoke softly, a trace of noticeable regret laced into his words. His aged hands pushed the stack of green-inked papers towards you. You eyed him, surprised to see sorrow in his posture. "But if you will, one word of advice..."

Slipping the papers into your bag, you urged him to go on.

"If you really loved your child… you wouldn't be seeking this divorce."

You could only nod politely, a pained smile marring your face as you left without a glance back.

You didn't know just how much truth his words would still hold in the future.