Today was the first rainy morning since the funeral.
The rain was tapping a gentle, erratic rhythm against the windowpane—not the aggressive drumming of a storm, but the soft, persistent patter of a world taking a long, quiet shower. Inside the attic bedroom, Elias pulled the worn quilt up to his chin. It was the kind of rainy good morning that made you want to burrow and disappear. rainy good morning
Elias felt a hot tear slide down his cheek. He sat there on the cold floor, wrapped in the quilt, as the sounds faded after thirty perfect seconds. The rain continued its soft applause on the roof. Today was the first rainy morning since the funeral
It wasn't a deathbed confession. It wasn't a final "I love you." It was the kind of rainy good morning
Instead, the smell hit him first: fresh bread and cinnamon. Then the sound—not a voice, but the rhythmic thump-thump-squeak of a dough hook kneading dough. And layered over it, the soft, tuneless humming of a woman who was utterly content.
He put the kettle on. It was, after all, a good morning to be alive.
He braced himself for a whisper, a cough, a sigh.