The rain had changed. It was no longer that soft veil, those timid drops that slide without insisting. No. It no longer caressed. It stung. Not like needles — that would be too simple, too physical, too obvious. No… it stung like acidic memories, like liquefied fragments of the past, falling from the sky to blend with the skin and awaken what we thought forgotten.
Each drop, now, seemed charged with an ancient weight. And even if they remained invisible to the eye, even if they didn't mark the flesh, they still left a burn — discreet, diffuse, but stubborn. A fine, nervous heat that seeped under the skin, like a muffled truth rising through the pores, drop by drop, until it smothered thought. The rain was no longer weather. It was a memory. A wet memory falling back down on me.
