Rain's POV:
After last night, my body feels sore in a way that goes deeper than muscle—like the ache lives somewhere beneath the skin.
Every movement comes late, delayed, as if I'm pushing myself through something thick and invisible.
For a while, I don't move at all. I just sit there, knees drawn close, staring out the window.
It's beautiful.
Snow drifts down in slow, soundless sheets, softening everything it touches.
Dark clouds hang low and heavy, the sky bruised with gray.
The kind of weather that usually means chaos at the ER—sirens cutting through the air, wet boots tracking slush across tile floors, hands moving too fast for anyone to keep up.
Today, I'm not there.
Today, I'm home.
And I don't want to think.
I don't want to plan or worry or brace myself for what comes next.
I just want to exist inside the quiet.
Eventually, restlessness nudges me to my feet.
