The rain did not fall all at once.
It started as a mistake.
A single drop slid down the glass of a streetlamp, tracing a thin, wavering line before disappearing into the night. The sky above was clear—no clouds, no wind, no warning. Yet the pavement beneath the lamp darkened slowly, spreading in an uneven circle.
Someone noticed.
They always did.
She stood beneath the lamp, coat pulled tight around her shoulders, eyes narrowed as she looked up. The light flickered once, twice, then steadied. No thunder followed. No clouds gathered.
Still, the rain continued.
"This isn't right," she murmured.
Her name was Lena Ward, and she had learned long ago to trust the feeling that crawled up her spine when the world slipped slightly out of alignment. It had kept her alive more times than she could count—through alleys that turned hostile, through silences that screamed louder than noise.
This felt worse.
The drops multiplied, falling in a narrow column no wider than the streetlamp's glow. Step outside it, and the air was dry. Step back in, and the rain soaked through fabric instantly—cold, heavy, smelling faintly of iron.
Lena stepped out of it.
Dry.
She stepped back in.
Soaked.
Her pulse quickened. "Localized rainfall," she whispered. "That's not possible."
The rain intensified, drumming against the pavement with unnatural precision. Each drop struck in perfect rhythm, like a countdown only it could hear.
She raised her hand.
The moment the rain touched her skin, pain flared sharply across her palm. She hissed, yanking her hand back. A faint mark glimmered briefly against her skin—three thin lines intersected by a curved slash.
Gone as quickly as it appeared.
"No," she breathed. "No, no—"
The streetlamp flickered violently now, light stuttering as shadows twisted unnaturally beneath it. The world seemed to narrow, sound dulling, as if she were sinking underwater.
Then she heard it.
A door.
Not behind her.
Not in front of her.
Inside her head.
Knock.
Knock.
Her breath came in shallow bursts. "I didn't open anything," she said aloud, though no one was there. "I didn't touch—"
The rain shifted.
It no longer fell straight down.
It leaned toward her.
Every drop angled slightly inward, converging on where she stood, drawn by something unseen. The mark on her palm burned again—hot, insistent—sending a pulse up her arm and into her chest.
Images flooded her mind without permission.
A tower of black stone.
Mirrors cracking.
A girl kneeling on a silver-lit floor, clutching something that glowed.
Lena staggered back, colliding with the streetlamp. "Who are you?" she whispered.
The rain answered.
You are close enough.
The words weren't spoken. They pressed into her thoughts, heavy and intimate, like a hand on the back of her neck.
She ran.
The moment she crossed the edge of the light, the rain stopped. Completely. The pavement dried almost instantly, leaving no sign it had ever been wet.
Except for her.
Her coat clung damply to her skin, and the mark on her palm pulsed once more before fading beneath the surface.
Heart pounding, Lena ducked into the nearest building, slamming the door behind her. She leaned against it, gasping, listening.
No rain.
No knocking.
But the silence felt staged.
She opened her hand slowly.
The mark reappeared—faint but unmistakable.
Recognition flared in her eyes.
"I knew it," she whispered. "It's happening again."
Somewhere far away, beyond walls and distance and reality itself, the tower adjusted.
And deep within it, you gasped as something answered back—a tug in your chest, sharp and undeniable.
Not alone.
Not anymore.
The rain had chosen another place to fall.