The storm had not ended. It had transcended.
What once was merely weather had evolved into something sentient—no longer a force of nature, but a ritual carried by the breath of the world. Lightning etched strange sigils into the sky, curving and coiling with eerie precision, as if inscribing forgotten verses of a language too old for memory. The thunder no longer boomed. It echoed—faint and hollow—as if the world had lost its voice and was struggling to remember how to speak. The rain descended not in droplets but in sharp, slanted shards, slicing through the air like broken prayers hurled by unseen gods. Each gust of wind carried voices not of the living, but of the erased—lost names crying out for remembrance through the howl of the storm.
