The rain begins against the window. I hear it before you reach for me.

There have been brighter mornings. You have gone out without so much as looking towards the hook by the door. Today, you slip your arms into my sleeves and fasten me beneath your chin. Outside, Stockholm is disappearing very slightly into autumn.

It is only a gentle rain. Duggregn. Enough to darken the pavement, not enough to spoil an afternoon,unless you had already decided that it would.

In Gamla stan, the streets hold the weather close. Water gathers beneath the eaves and falls in larger drops onto my shoulders. Beneath the hood, the sound is softer: a small, irregular tapping, close enough to belong only to you.

You stop for a cardamom bun.

For a few minutes, there is the warmth of the paper bag against me, then the scent of freshly broken bread and cardamom beneath the hood. You eat standing in a doorway, watching people choose their paths around the puddles. A few crumbs find my cuff. I carry them without complaint.

By Strandvägen, the rain has more room. There is water beside the pavement now, boats shifting at their moorings, and autumn colour in the trees. Your hands return to my pockets.

On Djurgårdsbron, you stop.

You turn towards the city and look along the water. Stockholm stretches away beneath its pale sky, its buildings softened by the rain. Your hands rest on the railing. For a while, there is no footfall to accompany the tapping on my hood.

I know this much about you: some views are worth getting a little wetter for.

Across the bridge, Djurgården smells of damp leaves and earth. Drops collect on branches before finding us, heavier than the fine rain falling between the trees. You take the quieter path.

At Rosendals Trädgård, there is coffee.

You leave me over the back of a chair. Steam rises from the cup, and your fingers settle around it. Swedish coffee has a useful way of giving an afternoon somewhere to pause. Outside, the garden continues getting wet.

A drop travels down my sleeve and falls.

For the length of a coffee, I am the weather.

Outside again, you raise the hood. The rain is barely there now, but I can still hear it. You carry the bag in one hand and put the other in my pocket.

At the next corner, you could turn towards home.

You choose the street beside the water.

Seasons come and go. My longing stays.

I am your raincoat. I still hope it rains.

Later, back across the bridge and into Östermalmshallen, the sounds change: footsteps, voices, paper being folded around purchases. You choose löjrom for the evening. Small amber pearls, something lovely to set beside crème fraîche and finely chopped red onion.

There needn’t be an occasion. There has been a walk.