Window drawings and weather spells
Somewhere between soup and bedtime, the rain started writing poems down the glass.
He answered back in fingertip whispers—two dots, a nose, a surprised little mouth. A face. Not quite a person, but someone who might visit when the house gets quiet enough.
You know the kind of evening. When the light outside goes full-blue and the living room turns gold, and you feel like you’re in a lighthouse even though you’re not near the sea.
I don’t know who the drawing is meant to be. Maybe just a friend for the thunder. Or maybe he’s the lookout. The one who keeps watch in case the wind tries anything funny.
Anyway, the window’s full of fog and stories now. And I think the storm liked being drawn on. It stayed longer than usual.