The window is open
letting in the cold
as if the wind might stir something
still living inside her.

Rain drifts in
soft and uninvited
a chill crawling over her skin
where warmth used to rest.

She watches droplets gather
on the ledge and fall
like they can’t decide
whether to stay or disappear.

The room feels too quiet
the kind of silence
that presses against the bones
and asks questions
without words.

She draws her knees closer
as if closeness might return feeling
as if the storm might reach
the places she has grown numb.

Outside, thunder murmurs
a low, steady pulse
reminding her the world still moves
even when she is standing still inside.

She waits
for a spark
for a tremor
for anything at all
to remind her she is here.

The rain keeps falling
the wind keeps calling
and she keeps breathing
hoping the storm
will eventually find her.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All rights reserved.