It came first as a scent—earthy, electric, ancient.
Charlisa lifted her head from where she sat grinding dried tubers into powder. The wind had shifted. No longer the raspy dryness of the past moons, but a cool breath, as if the sky itself had exhaled after holding back for too long.
Across the village, heads turned. Children stopped mid-run. The hens rustled in their pens. Somewhere, a dog gave a low, uncertain whine.
Then came the drumbeats—not from man, but from the heavens.
A low rumble. A distant thrum. Then louder. Louder.
Charlisa looked up—and gasped.
Clouds, heavy and dark, rolled across the horizon like an army long awaited. Thunder cracked like bones breaking open to release joy. The wind stilled in reverence.
And then—rain.
Not a drizzle. Not a warning.
A downpour.
Charlisa stood frozen as the first drops struck her arms, her hair, her neck. Warm. Wild. Alive.
Around her, the village erupted.
Children screamed in delight, racing into the open, mouths wide and hands flung to the sky. Elders cried. Even the animals stirred—hens fluttered, dogs howled, goats stamped and ran in circles. Aven spun in place, arms out, laughing with abandon for the first time in weeks.
Charlisa stepped forward—and Kael caught her hand.
He had come from behind the storehouse, already soaked, his silver-streaked hair flattened against his forehead, his tunic clinging to his chest like second skin. Water ran down his face, his neck, his smile.
He looked at her the way one might look at firelight after being lost in cold woods.
"Come," he whispered, tugging her into the open.
And there, under the sky's first mercy in moons, they danced.
Not a formal dance. Not a tribal one. Just limbs moving in joy, skin against skin, fingers threading wet hair, laughter spilled from mouths pressed too long by survival. The rain plastered Charlisa's dress to her skin, and Kael didn't look away. He never did.
She spun, he caught her. She stumbled, he lifted her. And when she crashed into his chest, both of them breathless and laughing, their foreheads pressed together, he said—
"This… I'll remember when I'm grey and blind."
She kissed him.
There was no crowd watching now—only rain, and earth, and the scent of life returning. His hand traced her cheek slowly, reverently, and she felt something in her chest unfurl that no storm could break.
"I'll remember too," she whispered.
Years from now, when they'd sit beside a hearth with children in their laps or silver in their hair, they would speak of this night—the one when the sky remembered them, when thirst broke, and love tasted like rain.