The rain falls in threads, delicate and persistent, threading the air with whispers of moisture.
I sit beneath the weathered awning of a veranda whose wood groans quietly under the weight of countless seasons. Its planks are swollen and warped, mottled with dark stains where water has seeped and lingered too long.
The house it embraces is small and modest, with a sloping roof bowed by age and wear. The eaves drip slowly, the soft plinks marking time against the quiet rhythm of the rain.
Beyond the railing, the garden is drenched—each blade of grass bowed beneath its fragile load, shimmering with thousands of tiny prisms that catch what little light filters through the grey sky.
The air is thick and heavy with the scent of wet earth, the deep, rich musk that settles in after rain has kissed the soil. It is a smell that reaches deep into the bones, pulling at something forgotten but not lost.
Somewhere, just beyond a dense hedgerow, the faint murmur of a stream threads through the gentle symphony of rain—silver water breaking in tiny ripples, as drops strike and scatter, rings upon rings spreading in quiet succession.
Inside the house, though hidden from sight, a fire burns.
I know it by the soft, golden glow slipping through a crack in a door, painting the floor in shards of amber.
The scent of smoke hangs in the air—tangy and warm, a promise of comfort, safety.
For a moment, I imagine stepping inside, feeling the sudden bite of heat on chilled skin, shaking rain from my shoulders, letting the warmth press into my fingers.
But I do not move.
I remain seated, hands wrapped around a cup filled with something warm, though its taste eludes me, a fading memory on my tongue.
The hedgerow bends and quivers as a light breeze passes through, parting a narrow window into the orchard beyond.
Rows of trees stand in patient lines, their branches heavy with wet leaves and fruit, bowing under the weight of countless droplets.
I see apples, round and glossy—deep reds and pale greens gleaming faintly in the muted light.
I imagine walking through the orchard, feet sinking softly into mossy earth, the crunch of damp grass beneath my soles.
I picture reaching out, fingers brushing the cool, smooth skin of a fruit plucked fresh from the branch—its scent crisp, sweet, faintly tangy.
I imagine carrying handfuls of apples inside, placing them gently on a wooden table scarred with years of use.
The scent of fruit mingles with the warm firelight and the faint aroma of baking bread—though I know I have never truly been there to smell these things, to taste these moments.
And yet the images settle in my mind with the weight of something real, a phantom imprint beneath the fog of forgetfulness.
In the back of my mind, a pair of hands tend the orchard—weathered and sure, cracked and stained by soil.
Hands that know the seasons by heart, that coax life from earth with steady patience.
I have never touched this earth, never knelt in this soil, never felt the rough bark beneath my fingertips.
But the vision persists—unshakable.
The rain softens to a mist, lifting slowly from the grass and weaving silver threads through the orchard's quiet rows.
Birds begin to sing—tentative notes breaking the silence, soon joined by others, until the air is filled with a chorus of life and light.
The clouds thin, revealing pale shafts of sunlight that scatter across wet leaves, sending droplets sparkling like jewels.
The air tastes cleaner now, fresh as something just begun.
And yet, as I watch the orchard bathed in soft light, the quiet truth settles deep in my chest—this place, these moments, are not mine.
They never were.
Still, I remain.
Rooted to this spot by longing I cannot name, by memories I cannot claim.
The rain continues to fall, soft and unending—like a promise and a curse.