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