Rain comes differently here—
not quiet, but remembered.
It hits the tin roofs first,
a rhythm older than the street,
older than me.
The dust lifts,
and suddenly the air knows something
it had forgotten.
Children run barefoot into it,
laughing like it always returns,
like it always will.
And for a moment,
standing under a sky heavy with memory,
I am somewhere I never really left.
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