The Taste of Rain
The morning light spread like silk through the curtains, soft and reluctant, as if it too did not wish to wake.
Elara lay in bed, listening to the pulse of the city beneath her window—the murmuring of cars, the low hum of life, the unseen breathing of millions. Her own breath came uneven, shallow, as though her lungs had grown tired of drawing in air that carried no meaning.
Her apartment was perfect—an architect’s dream of minimalism, every line sharp, every surface clean. And yet, the perfection felt sterile. The silence too obedient.
At thirty-five, Elara had the kind of beauty that disturbed people—precise and almost unreal, a geometry that made others self-conscious. But beauty, she had discovered, was a currency that always demanded interest. It made people project dreams onto her, then hate her when she refused to inhabit them.
She rose, wrapped a robe around her shoulders, and padded barefoot to the window. Rain had begun again—the thin, silver kind that seemed to fall without sound.
She pressed her palm to the glass. Cold. Real.
Beneath the streetlight across the road, a man was standing, looking up. She couldn’t see his face, only the silhouette: tall, unmoving, the outline blurred by the drizzle. For a long moment, he did not move. Then he turned his head, as if sensing her gaze, and she stepped back instinctively, her heartbeat suddenly loud in the quiet room.
When she looked again, he was gone.
Elara worked as a consultant for an art foundation—curating events, advising wealthy patrons on which emotions to purchase next. The gallery’s glass walls reflected her image everywhere, multiplied her into a hundred versions of herself walking past the same paintings.
That afternoon, she met with her assistant, Clara, to discuss a new installation—a series of abstract forms suspended in midair, titled “The Incomplete Whole.”
“Elara, you’ll love it,” Clara said, scrolling through the digital catalog. “The artist works with scent and vibration. He says his goal is to awaken forgotten senses.”
“Forgotten senses?” Elara smiled faintly. “People can’t even remember how to feel.”
Clara looked at her curiously. “You say that as if you don’t.”
Elara didn’t answer.
The truth was, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt anything that didn’t dissolve before it reached her heart. Lovers came and went—men and women both—each leaving behind a little more emptiness than they found.
That evening, when she returned home, the city had turned to glass and shadow. The rain had deepened, thickened, until it was almost sound. She opened a bottle of wine, poured a single glass, and sat by the window again.
He was there.
The man from the morning. Standing under the same streetlight. Watching the same window.
This time she did not look away.
“Who are you?” she whispered to the rain.
He didn’t move, didn’t flinch.
She raised her glass slowly in his direction—a silent toast to the absurdity of the moment—and drank.
When she looked again, the street was empty.
The dreams began that night.
She found herself in a corridor of mirrors, each reflecting her at a different age. In one, she was a child, eyes wide, still unbroken. In another, she was older, her face painted with the fatigue of desire. The mirrors breathed.
At the end of the corridor stood the man. His face was still hidden, but his voice filled the space like a pulse.
“You keep searching,” he said. “But you’ve forgotten what you lost.”
“What did I lose?” she asked.
“Your reflection,” he replied.
When she woke, her body was trembling. Her sheets smelled faintly of rain.
A week later, she was invited to a private exhibition in the old quarter—a small event, not yet open to the public. The message had come anonymously, but it carried her name.
When she arrived, the building seemed abandoned—its facade cracked, ivy crawling up the stone like veins. Inside, the air was cool and scented faintly with myrrh.
The exhibition consisted of only one installation.
A circle of water suspended in the air—transparent, weightless, held by nothing. It rippled as she approached, responding to her presence.
“Beautiful,” said a voice behind her.
She turned.
It was him.
He looked younger than she expected—early forties, perhaps—but there was something in his eyes that made time seem irrelevant.
“You’re the artist,” she said.
He smiled. “I’m someone who listens to what form wants to become.”
“And what does this want to become?” she asked, nodding to the floating water.
He stepped closer. “It’s not water. It’s memory. Every drop remembers the body it once touched.”
She laughed softly. “That sounds poetic.”
“
You can support my work and download this and my other images and stories in high resolution (4K) without watermarks and without ads on my channel https://www.patreon.com/perecciv or https://perecciv.gumroad.com/, https://rarible.com/user/0x704d5a3da33ecc947f849151d9de3ce12d3d90e0/owned I would be glad if you leave your feedback about my work.
