“I always liked the rain,” I tell him, looking out over the hillside. The wind’s blowing slightly, just enough for the limbs of the trees - some leafless, others full - to bounce around. “Yeah?” “Yeah. It’s a random escape, the rain.” “How so?” His fingers reach out and he pushes my wet hair over my shoulder, leaving his warm hand to rest there. “It comes and goes as it pleases, taking with it the remains of the day or the hours before, washing away all traces of attendance, all the memories. Nothing is as powerful as the rain.”
