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When The Rain Stops

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Are you a good person? Or a bad person? We like to shape our reality on our ethical understanding of good and evil, but it all kind of fades and twists together when you see the bigger picture. What would you do if you had the power to change it all? To be different? To be... special? The world is in your hands, but more than that, you have the responsibility to get the future back on track. You must. Whatever it takes. Whatever the cost.

Thriller / Scifi
Amaro S.R.
Age Rating:

The End.

My parents spoke about London with such distaste on the tip of their tongues. Harsh, morning winds, and drizzling rains cascading on those early hours. Apparently, the searing coffees that always lacked sugar, alongside the cold, bashful temperatures, just didn’t seem to fit in what she thought was ideal.

I didn’t see it that way. I thought there was a beauty to the chaos, especially now.

The trickles of rain poured onto the sloped, glass roof with a wonderful timber, and such rhythm it was impossible to wake up in a stressed mood. Tints of light and dark green danced across the outside of the glass panes. The plants twirled gracefully as thick, heavy droplets of water thumped their surfaces and fell onto the moist dirt.

Rainfall had such a distinct scent. As if clouds spent all night, soaking the aura, and cleansing it for ideal dawn- like clockwork that never faulted.

Today was a special day. I think I’m happy. There’s a certain uneasiness in my abdomen, and the awareness of how intricate everything surrounding me is. I think I’m happy. What do you think?

I didn’t really have half-assed coffees, that lacked sweetness. I preferred my coffee without sugar. If you can’t handle the robust taste, why would you mask it with a kilogram of sugar and pretend you like it? That was an exaggeration, by the way.

It had slick, black handles, with several silver buttons that faded within the grey pattern. Whenever I made my coffee in the morning, I always found the bitter smell of coffee oozing out so comforting. Inhaling, I moved the lever downwards and admired the black liquid hitting the bottom of the ceramic mug.

I sat down on the massive leather couch that enveloped the penthouse and slurped my coffee. Gradually, I felt more and more like a child. The pavement imitated and echoed the sky above it like a graceful mirror. It looked damp and angry, like a benevolent ocean that slowly, inevitably engulfed everything around it. Thousands of ticks and tacks patted the metallic body of the buildings, and tick-ed and tack-ed the panes, almost stealing the hue from the world around me.

It’s oxymoronic, don’t you think? I could see my socks if I moved my crossed legs onto the mirroring floor: cyan and white. Puffy and warm. And yet outside, it was vividly clear the coarse cold everyone else was agonizing over. Not like I could observe them, from up here, everything was but a dot in a dull painting. I liked it that way. The only hushes I heard wear the wintry whispers of the wind knocking on the doors of the balcony. It would have to stay out. I’m warm right now and I like it that way. Plus, today is a special day, and I don’t want to be sick, no. Not today.

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