Before The Rain

The first thing I noticed was the darkness. My room was the kind

of dark that presses against your eyelids, the kind that isn't just

absence of light but the weight of everything waiting. My digital

clock glowed 3:33 a.m., the numbers fluorescent and steady, like

they were carved into the air. And as usual, I was awake, lying

on my back with my hands folded across my stomach, waiting

for the whisper I'd been hearing for seven nights straight.

"Watch... for the storm will come."

It was the same words every night, delivered like a soft breeze

that could cut glass if it wanted. I rolled onto my side and pulled

my journal closer. The pen felt cold in my fingers, but as soon

as it touched paper, it seemed to warm under my touch, guided

by a force I didn't understand. I wrote:

Watch... for the storm will come.