Drake's Rainy Night

Drake takes a moment to remember a lesson his father taught him.

Drake stood by the cracked door, listening to the rain hiss against the street below. The glow of the streetlights rippled across puddles, turning the cracked asphalt into rivers of broken amber.

He lifted the old comb his father had left him, sliding it through his damp, dark hair. The teeth caught on a stubborn knot, and he winced, remembering the mornings when his father would gently fix his hair before sending him off to school, telling him to “stand tall, no matter what.”

But that was before the street turned cold and empty, before the factories closed, before his father’s laughter became a memory echoing in the hollow rooms of this apartment.

Drake set the comb down and checked the time. He slipped his jacket on, its fabric thin at the elbows, and stepped through the door, locking it behind him. The street outside smelled of wet concrete and rust, neon signs reflecting in oily puddles as cars rolled by, headlights washing over him in brief, pale waves.

At the corner, he saw an older man huddled in a doorway, shaking, a small dog curled against his chest. Drake reached into his pocket, pulling out the last of the bread he had saved, and handed it to the man without a word. Their eyes met, and the man whispered, “Thank you.”

Drake turned, looking up at the grey sky, the cold drops washing over his face as he stepped back into the street. The world was hard, but he would stand tall, like his father had taught him, one small act at a time.

Behind him, the door to the apartment waited, but Drake kept walking, the comb in his pocket a quiet promise to keep going.

Word Count: 288
Prompt: Write a story that includes the words: comb, door, street
Written for: "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge"