Halfway up the hill, I took shelter from the rain beneath the awning of a secondhand bookshop. An old man was standing there, holding a closed umbrella. He tapped its tip against the wet pavement.
"This hill used to be under the sea," he said.
I looked down the street. Rainwater was running along the curb, carrying leaves toward the drain. When I turned back, the man had stepped out from under the awning. He walked away without opening his umbrella.
I was caught in the rain at the same place some time later. The shop was closed, and the old man was standing beneath the awning.
"You told me this hill used to be under the sea."
He kept looking at the pavement.
"No," he said. "It was a desert."
I glanced down. Between the cracks in the asphalt I could make out what looked like fine sand. I hadn't noticed it before.
The man drew the tip of his umbrella across the ground.
"Look. Sand."
The longer I looked, the less certain I was of the pavement beneath it. The dark surface seemed to break into grains. When I breathed in, something caught at the back of my throat, dry enough to make me swallow.
The rain had stopped. Water collected in the shallow places along the road, but I kept my eyes on the ground beside the man's shoes.
I stepped out from under the awning and went up the hill. I tested the pavement with the sole of my shoe before putting my full weight on it. By the time I reached the station, the sand was gone, though I looked down twice more to check.
The next time it rained, two men were talking beneath the bookshop awning. I stepped in beside them.
"This used to be the top of a mountain, didn't it?"
"No, I heard it was a desert."
"Really? Which was it?"
I said, "No, this hill used to be under the sea."