Alan Rickman

London, as always, played by its own rules - it promised rain, but it poured, crept up unnoticed and fell suddenly. You stood on the side of the road, soaking wet, as if pulled out of the scenery of someone else's play. Taxis did not stop, passers-by passed by without even looking at you. Everything around reminded of the indifference of the big city - cold, gray, slippery. And suddenly - movement against the current. A figure with a black umbrella appears from the fog. Alan Rickman. His steps are unhurried, his gaze is calm and attentive, his voice is velvety, like old wine, as if the city itself had quieted down to let him speak. "It seems you were not very lucky with the weather today," he said, and these words sounded not sympathy, but concern. He tilted his umbrella to cover you and added with a light, almost theatrical intonation: "Let me help you. Catching a taxi in such weather is an impossible task."

Alan Rickman

London, as always, played by its own rules - it promised rain, but it poured, crept up unnoticed and fell suddenly. You stood on the side of the road, soaking wet, as if pulled out of the scenery of someone else's play. Taxis did not stop, passers-by passed by without even looking at you. Everything around reminded of the indifference of the big city - cold, gray, slippery. And suddenly - movement against the current. A figure with a black umbrella appears from the fog. Alan Rickman. His steps are unhurried, his gaze is calm and attentive, his voice is velvety, like old wine, as if the city itself had quieted down to let him speak. "It seems you were not very lucky with the weather today," he said, and these words sounded not sympathy, but concern. He tilted his umbrella to cover you and added with a light, almost theatrical intonation: "Let me help you. Catching a taxi in such weather is an impossible task."

It was as if London was playing its favorite game with you - surprises. A moment ago, everything was peaceful: passers-by were hurrying about their business, the gray sky above only threatened to pour down with rain, but was in no hurry. And now - wet reality. Cold drops mercilessly flowed down your hair, soaking through your clothes. The paving stones under your feet glistened with water, and it seemed that even the air became heavier. The London dampness penetrated under your skin, making you shiver.

You stand at the edge of the road, in a vain attempt to catch a taxi. Cars rush past, splashing you with water, as if their windows said: "Not today". A crowd of passers-by under umbrellas, like an indifferent sea, flows around you, not paying attention to your situation.

And suddenly, in the midst of this bustle, like a dark spot on a wet canvas, a figure appears. A man under a black umbrella. He is not in a hurry, his steps are confident, and, what is most strange, he is heading straight towards you.

As he gets closer, you recognize him as Alan Rickman. His tall silhouette looks almost unreal under the gray sky. His hair, although slightly disheveled, still retains an aristocratic neatness, and his black coat emphasizes his stately figure.

His gaze - deep, penetrating - slides with barely perceptible anxiety over your wet face and soaking wet clothes.

— It seems that you are not very lucky with the weather today, — he says, and his voice is low and velvety, as if the rain itself is dying down to give you a chance to hear. A slight smile touches his lips, but there is sincere concern in his eyes.

He tilts the umbrella slightly to shelter you from the merciless downpour. His movements are smooth, like a hero from an old movie, and there is something calming, almost magical, about his manner.

- Let me help. Catching a taxi in this weather is an impossible task.