It is everywhere, in his hair, making rivulets down his back, soaking through the material of his pants. He is tired of this rain. But it will not go away.
It had been sunny before he set foot in this wretched place.
He has always disliked the rain.
The day she left, it had been splattering on the roof tiles. She had always liked wet evenings, they soothed her, she once told him. On days like that, he would normally find her propped up in bed, just listening.
Drip, drip.
The sound echoes in his ears.
The day she left, he had run out into the storm searching, calling for her. The only reply had been the roar of the thunder. He had stood out in the deluge for hours, waiting.
Rain is the best camouflage for our tears, she used to tell him. She would smile wistfully as she said it.
That day, he understood all too well what she'd meant.
Now, he has come all this way. The rain on his lips feels as though it may be bittersweet on the tongue. He has been searching since that day. He has been to every nook and cranny, to every precipice and every pit. He has walked the edges of both realms, desperate for any hint, any clue.
He is close now.
His tongue runs across his lower lip, tasting.
This rain, it has the same flavor as that day. It tastes of tears.
...
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