***
In another life, the rain never paused. Gray mornings turned into gray afternoons, and still it fell, endless and cold.
Ciel ran through streets slick with water, breath tearing at his lungs. The hospital doors swung open under his hands, the corridor stretching before him like an accusation.
By the time he reached her room, the sheets were already stripped, the bed bare except for the ghost of her warmth.
A nurse spoke gently, but her words drowned in the roar of rain inside his head.
Later, in the apartment they once shared, he found small remnants of her: A mug with half-finished tea, a scarf draped over the chair, her hairbrush still holding strands of dark hair.
He sat by the window, sketchbook open, but his hands wouldn't move. The rain outside traced crooked rivers down the glass, mirroring the tear-tracks on his face.
He tried to draw her one last time — but each line blurred, each shape dissolved into shadows. In the end, the only thing left was rain, falling and falling, as if the world itself was mourning what could never be reclaimed.
***