The Echo of Rain

The rain tasted like regret, a familiar flavor on my tongue.
It always seemed to find me after the city exhaled its last breath of heat – a grey wash spreading through the cobblestones, mirroring the dampness in my soul.
He wasn’t here, of course. Not physically. But his scent lingered—woodsmoke and something sharper, like old paper and forgotten promises—caught on the breeze that snaked down this narrow street.
I'd been tracing patterns in the slick asphalt with my boots for an hour, each step a deliberate attempt to feel *something*, anything beyond the ache.
The gaslights cast elongated shadows, dancing companions in the gloom.
It’s odd how warmth can be found in solitude, like a hidden pocket of embers after a storm.
I hadn't realized until just now that he’d left me this – an echo of his presence, swirling in the rain, a ghost of comfort against the chill.
A single drop traced a path down my cheek, and for a moment, I allowed myself to believe it was a brush of his hand.
Perhaps some loves aren't meant to be spoken aloud, but felt – a slow burn beneath layers of unspoken needs, hidden in the shadows of a rainy night.

Editor: Shadow Lover