Rain was not falling diagonally that night, she was thinking. It fell like tear drops, patient and painful yet a salve. her eyes brimmed too as this was the only time she could flee from the chaos of daily life. Otherwise, she had made a habit of fleeing from herself. Romantic or sad, she did not know such clichés. maybe that is what made it difficult for her, the realism. For her, rain was still.
A cat, cold to its bones, yowled on her windowsill, startling her out of her thoughts. Lights went out and she could no longer see the rain from her window. She did not like sounds that were not accompanied by sight. She gathered herself and shut the windows. The knock that followed was unexpected at that hour of the night.
