She was ahead of me on the pavement, blazer slipping, bag thumping against her hip in a way that suggested the day had not been kind. The puddle wasn’t remarkable; a shallow spread of rainwater collecting whatever the street had dropped into it. It gave her pause as she considered it with the seriousness of someone weighing up a menu they already know by heart.

Then she stepped straight into the middle, a firm, unapologetic stamp that sent a neat ring of water outward. No smile, no triumph, just a small adjustment in her posture, as though the act had nudged her mood half a notch to the left.

She carried on, socks wet, stride lighter. I watched her go, thinking how enviable it is to solve something (anything) with that kind of simple, decisive gesture. The puddle settled behind her, unbothered, doing what puddles do.