Concentration.

He looks at the world as a place where rain counts more than anything else. He wishes for elemental fury the way one would wish for a new house, in an everyday sort of manner, nothing coconut-breaking about it. It's just a simple wish. He hunches over umbrellas and puts in little stitches, bending old metal back into curved lines. His eye sees more than cloth and knobs going into this thing, this contraption, that for the owner is something one leaves lying in plastic bags on rickety buses. But he collects memories, this man, of sleek umbrellas and shabby ones, as he mends them meticulously, grey-haired head oblivious to the world around.

Luck's been coming his way lately. It's a good thing this one wasn't left on a bus. If it's torn, it's been used. If it's been brought in for repair, it shows that it transcends the requirement of being a thing - it is now a possession. And, who knows, it might even be treasured. And, if he's impossibly lucky, an heirloom.

The word profession is full of possibilities. There is nothing in this world you can't earn your living from, and perhaps that's a glorious thing, but it's a bittersweet near-tragedy too, just a little.