The rain didn't fall that evening—it whispered.
Soft, steady, like it was trying not to wake the wounds inside her chest.
Elira walked home slowly, letting each drop settle on her skin.
They reminded her of him.
How he used to trace her cheeks with the gentleness of a drizzle,
how he once said, "Love should fall lightly, like rain that chooses the earth."
But love didn't fall lightly.
It crashed.
It drowned.
And now all that remained were echoes—
his voice fading, her heart remembering despite itself.
Yet somewhere beneath the ache,
a new pulse stirred.
A small, stubborn hope
that maybe the rain wasn't only mourning—
maybe it was cleansing.