But the rain cannot cleanse what is etched into bone—what lingers in the marrow of memory. He longs for stillness, for a quiet the rain cannot give. And yet, he remains, a man of ruins, standing steadfast in the storm.

The sky weeps for what is already lost, he thinks, but the ground does not mourn. There is no solace in this cycle, no redemption in decay. He closes his eyes, the chill biting his skin, and lets the rain drench him, as if the storm can wash away the heaviness he cannot name.