A Memory of Rain, A Gaze of Stone

RUBY

I left Dr. Keane's office feeling lighter than I had in years. The late afternoon sunlight seemed brighter somehow, the colors around me more vibrant. His therapy session had been nothing like the harsh, clinical approach of Dr. Alistair. No cold metal tools, no sterile examination room—just soft music, herbal tea that tasted of mint and something sweeter, and gentle questions that led me back into my own mind.

"Focus on the feeling, not the thought," he'd instructed, his voice calm and steady. "Let your body remember what your mind has forgotten."

And it had worked. I'd remembered something beautiful—a memory so vivid I could still feel the raindrops on my skin.

I was sixteen again, racing through the forest behind our pack house with Leo. Summer rain poured down, soaking us to the bone, but we didn't care. We were laughing, splashing through puddles, our clothes clinging to our bodies. My hair—longer then—hung in heavy, dripping strands down my back.