The Room Where Rain Waited

You step through a door that has been open too long, into a room where the rain does not fall on the roof but accumulates in invisible pockets of memory. The air smells of wet wool and old paper, and every puddle on the floor reflects a version of you that arrived just moments before or after. The window is fogged with a breath no one else remembers taking, yet you know exactly who it was. You realize the rain has been waiting for this specific moment, not because of time passing, but because the house finally knows your name.