The rain started as a whisper.
A soft patter against the glass. Then louder. Heavier. Until the sky split open again in a growl of lightening thunder, and water came down in sheets, crashing against the windows of the villa like it had something to prove.
The water turned dark, angry, violent. Wind howled like a feral thing in the distance. And all I could think about… was how much I hated the rain.
It reminded me of everything I worked so hard to bury.
The day my mother died, while her body was wheeled into the ambulance, it rained afterwards like this—merciless and cold. The kind of downpour that seeped into your bones and stayed there. The kind of rain that makes you feel like the world's punishing you for surviving.
