122: Shadows in the Rain

The door opens onto a grey world of haze. Rain pity-patters against the roof above the porch, bounces off the steps, and whispers across the garden ground, creating a slow-moving mist that hides and distorts. I wrap my hands around my teacup and inhale the almost-chemical smell of falling water and wet dirt. It is cold. Each patter on the roof, each whisper across the grounds, is an echo. A step, a name. Spoken long ago. They move softly, like shadows in the haze, and trickle away through infinite gutters and ditches to never be seen again.

Written by: Katrine H. (@katrinehjulstad)