The rain had been falling for hours, relentless and cold, turning the dirt roads to slick veins of mud that pulsed beneath the weight of tires long gone. The sky hung low and gray, swallowing every hint of light. No birds. No wind. Just the ceaseless hiss of water pouring from a sky too heavy with secrets.   She stood barefoot in the gravel, toes numb, dress clinging to her skin like regret. Her fingers trembled as they gripped the hem, knuckles white, blood drying in streaks along her forearm. She didn’t cry. Not anymore. That part of her had bled out already, along with everything else that once felt real.   The old farmhouse loomed behind her, windows dark, door wide open, and the coppery scent still hanging in the doorway like a curse. Something inside her begged to run—but the thing whispering louder told her to look. To remember. To carry it.