The Scent Of Forgotten Rain

tain mornings, he would wake to the taste of thunder on his tongue and the phantom chill of mist clinging to hi

beside his mother, both of them barefoot on a wooden porch. She had her eyes closed, face tilted upward. Rain

hers, their eyes would narr

ng them as creative delusions. "Weather," they corrected,

him pills to "

tes called

raindrops he had never touched, painting storms from memory alone. He collected strange objects: a crac

it yet, but h

others who

n had begun