The Note on the Umbrella

On her third day at the bookshop, Jisu picked up the yellow umbrella. The rain had stopped two days ago, but it still leaned against a shelf beside the entrance. A scrap of paper on its handle had dried into a rough gray patch.

“Do you know whose this is?” Seon was finishing the day shift. He glanced at the umbrella. “Oh, that. You can leave it there.” His phone rang, and he stepped outside to answer.

Jisu put it back. Its tip slipped against the shelf, and the yellow fabric stretched across the floor. She stood it close to the wall. When a customer opened the door, the draft knocked it over again.

At closing time, she labeled an empty box Lost Property and put it under the counter. The umbrella went inside. If its owner asked, she could easily get it out.

The next evening, the umbrella was back beside the door. The box was still under the counter. Jisu examined the handle. There might once have been a name beneath the torn paper, but only two blurred strokes of ink remained.

Seon must have taken it out again. Jisu still hesitated over questions at shift changes. She did not want to seem eager to rearrange everything. Nor did she want to keep picking up the umbrella.

Seon had left early that day. His note said two ordered books would arrive tomorrow afternoon. Jisu considered adding a question about the umbrella, then put down her pen. Under his note, it might sound like a complaint.

Instead, she wrote on a slip: Would the owner please take this umbrella home. She added an exclamation mark, then erased it. She left out the period too. Folded neatly around the handle, it looked like a request.

The next day, the umbrella was gone. The corner beside the door was clear. As customers came and went, Jisu folded the empty box.

Rain arrived suddenly on Friday evening. As it drummed on the window, the florist hurried over from across the street, clutching her apron. “Is the yellow umbrella here? I need some packing string from the shop.”

Jisu looked at the door. “I think its owner took it.” The florist blinked. “Oh. I suppose you aren’t lending it out anymore.” She pushed back her wet fringe and left.

Through the glass, Jisu watched her spread a paper bag over her head. It collapsed after a few steps. Jisu searched her bag for an umbrella. Only a water bottle and wallet.

The florist soon returned, her apron dark with rain. Jisu opened the door. “Was that umbrella for customers to borrow?” The woman shifted the bag of string to her other hand. “Yes. I borrowed it a couple of times. It said so on the handle.”

Jisu stood holding the door. She remembered the gray paper. She had searched it for a name, then decided it was lost property when she could not find one.

Rain continued through closing. She opened the shift notebook. Beneath Friday’s orders, she wrote Umbrella, then stopped. Finally, she messaged Seon: Do you happen to have the yellow umbrella?

His reply came a few minutes later. Yes. I saw the note and took it home. Should I bring it tomorrow? Jisu reread it. I wrote the note. I didn’t know people could borrow it. His next reply took longer. I should have told you.

Seon returned with it, Jisu’s note still attached. A little yellow from the wet fabric had stained one edge. He peeled it off and put it on the counter.

“It used to be mine. When I got another one like it, I left this here. I should have replaced the old label after it got wet.” As he spoke, Jisu studied the folded tip.

“Did it look as though I was telling you to clear up?” Seon paused. “I thought you knew whose it was. I assumed you didn’t want it there.” Jisu remembered the tidy corner. “It did keep falling over.”

Seon stood it beside the door. The tip slid along the shelf. They both reached for it, then stopped on seeing the other’s hand. Once again, the umbrella lay on the floor.

“It needs a proper place,” Jisu said. Seon found a clean, empty metal tin in the storeroom. They tried it beside the counter, then moved it inside the entrance, clear of passing feet. Only the handle showed above the rim.

Jisu wrote a new label. Please borrow this umbrella. Return it to this tin when you’re done. She showed Seon. “Does this work?” He nodded. “Now I know where to put it too.”

That afternoon, the florist noticed the tin as she passed. She opened the door a little. “Can I borrow it again?” Jisu rose from the counter. “Yes. This is where it lives now.”

The florist read the label and took the umbrella. Outside, rain was falling again. Jisu watched her open it, then closed the door. A damp circle remained inside the tin.

At closing, Jisu added a line beside Seon’s note: Yellow umbrella borrowed by florist. Below, she wrote: The tin was already in the storeroom, wasn’t it? Neither of us brought it in?

Her phone buzzed. Seon replied: Yes. Its lid is in my drawer. Jisu found the lid. They probably would not need it for the umbrella, but she would remember where it was.