Today was the first rainy morning since the funeral.
Instead, the smell hit him first: fresh bread and cinnamon. Then the sound—not a voice, but the rhythmic thump-thump-squeak of a dough hook kneading dough. And layered over it, the soft, tuneless humming of a woman who was utterly content. rainy good morning
The rain was tapping a gentle, erratic rhythm against the windowpane—not the aggressive drumming of a storm, but the soft, persistent patter of a world taking a long, quiet shower. Inside the attic bedroom, Elias pulled the worn quilt up to his chin. It was the kind of rainy good morning that made you want to burrow and disappear. Today was the first rainy morning since the funeral