27 RAIN

October 26th, xxxx

LIKE A HUG, RAIN fits snugly in her arms but unlike a hug, she's cold to the touch, trapped. Her heart doesn't beat against her chest, her breath doesn't send tickles up her neck. There's no laughter afterwards, no giggle.

Rain doesn't stand beside her looking into the distance, there'll be no comment of how red the soil is, how it resembles the sun but at the same time doesn't.

Rain will not shriek as they glance at the rocks below, she will not hold onto her sleeve and skitter precariously on the edge.

There will be no comment passed between them, no awe, no wonder, no hugs. This is Rain, in a box, in a jar, in a bucket, in a cup; in an urn that'll never know her inappropriate jokes, will never sing along to her awful, cat scratching, ears bleeding voice.

Rain is ashes. No body. No soul.

Lata remembers Rain; who she was, what she liked, how she sounded like, her fear of height, her soft flesh against hers, the weight of her when they tumble in a fight; her pouts, her silence, her trembles, her love.

All this she remembers but for the life of her, Rain's face is a blur. A total blur. As if Rain never had a face. As if she didn't have a body. As if she never walked the earth, rest on trees, leave her mark.

Lata has cried, wailed. So full of sorrow, she could plummet to her death, meet Rain halfway. If she was alone, she could've. But she's not.

These Shifters—most she doesn't know—this Pack that doesn't belong to her, that don't know her, that haven't met Rain stand with her in silence and in unit, in white and in grief to say goodbye to the one that is dead.

And as Lata sends Rain off to the wind, she thinks of how Rain had lived, how she gave her all—her encompassing kindness and she knows.

She might not remember Rain's face but she lives on in her memories, in her heart. Rain is dead. Rain is ashes. Rain laughed. Rain lived.