Years later, they meet in the shadow of the great oak. They stare at each other with the blankness of the years that divide them. Recognition succumbs to uneasiness. The stares grow softer. The uneasiness abates stutteringly. He removes his glasses and wipes them gingerly. August rain is raging against the tree, enveloping the silence that shrouds them. He can't bring himself to be the first to speak. He wipes his glasses more animatedly, dismayed that he can't get the rain off them. He realises the rain managed to sneak into his pockets as well. He pauses and lets the raindrops that cling to him descend to the ground. The meeting isn't planned. It could not have been. He had left the city soon after she left him. His last memory of the city is a bus-stop not far from the great oak. It was raining that day too. They had planned to take a bus to the cafe that had nursed their love for many months. He remembers that day by the colour of the sky. He likes to remember it ...