Gogol

Petersburg was drowning in cold streams of rain. The cobblestones glistened, as if polished by time. Gogol walked, lost in thought, until through the haze he spotted a familiar figure at the railing.

• Alexander Sergeevich...
  Pushkin turned around, and that same spark flashed in his smile—live, bold, almost sunny, even under the gray sky.
  "Nikolai Vasilyevich! What a coincidence! St. Petersburg knows how to unite even those who seek solitude."
  They took refuge under the arch. Word by word, like quiet steps through puddles, their conversation flowed—about books, about inspiration, about a melancholy that neither time nor fame can cure.
  “You know,” Pushkin said, “sometimes it seems like your pages smell like rain.”
  Gogol looked at him intently, a little sadly.
  “And to me, Alexander Sergeevich, sometimes it seems that the rain is simply the sky, which is not able to hold too many feelings.
  He smiled, slowly removed his glove and touched the wet handrail.
  "And if it does decide to say even one word..." Gogol fell silent, looking at Pushkin. "What will happen then?"