The rain slows to a whisper, then stops entirely. It leaves behind a kind of hush—like the world is exhaling. Water drips from tree branches, gutters murmur with runoff, and the pavement gleams, slick and silver. We step out from under the bus stop awning, blinking at the brightness that's pushing through the thinning clouds.
"That smells like worms," I mutter.
Theo chuckles beside me. "Romantic."
"I'm a poet at heart."
The air feels strangely clean, like the rain scrubbed away everything stale. And as we turn the corner, I see it—a rainbow arcing gently across the sky, delicate and half-formed, its colors soft like a watercolor bleeding across the clouds.
I stop walking. Theo pauses too, following my gaze.
"Look," I say, pulling out my phone.
