"I've been there too. Not exactly there, but in that feeling. You know how it is when you walk alone in the rain and suddenly realize you no longer know exactly where you are, or why you started? The red umbrella cries out in silence among these old walls - "I'm here, I exist, I resist" - but the steps seem uncertain. I like the yellow bag - it's like a spark of hope we carry with us even on the grayest days. This abundant rain isn't just falling water; it's everything we feel when we lose ourselves in the labyrinth of our own thoughts. The walls dressed in moss and age seem to understand - they've seen so many generations of lost people, searching. Maybe that's the beauty: that you're never truly alone in being lost. Someone else felt the same, on these stones, a century ago. And the rain keeps falling, impartial, embracing all the lost ones."
