ArtFlow

January rain sounds different than other rain. Heavier, somehow. More deliberate. Like it has somewhere to be and isn't in a hurry to get there.
She sat by the window with both hands around a mug she'd stopped drinking from and listened to it against the glass. It reminded her of a specific afternoon — the kind you don't photograph because you don't know yet that you'll want to remember it. A kitchen somewhere. Someone talking. The smell of something cooking. The feeling of not needing to be anywhere else.
She couldn't remember the details anymore. Just the feeling. January rain and the ghost of a feeling she couldn't name.