15/10/2025
“The Scent of Rain”
Every evening at 6:30, just before the first drops began to fall, Nkem would light a small candle on her windowsill. The scent — sandalwood and amber — drifted into the air like a memory she couldn’t quite touch.
It had been their scent. Hers and Emeka’s.
He used to say the world smelled different right before it rained — like it was holding its breath. And she would laugh, pressing her head against his shoulder, teasing him for being so poetic.
But that was before the accident. Before the silence that came after the last phone call.
For months, she couldn’t stand the smell of rain. It felt like grief itself — soft, heavy, everywhere. She stopped lighting candles. She stopped waiting at the window.
Until one evening, months later, a storm rolled in without warning.
And as she reached to close the window, she smelled it — that mix of rain and sandalwood and memory.
And for the first time, it didn’t hurt. It hurt and healed at the same time.
She whispered into the quiet room,
> “You were right, Emeka. The world really does smell different before the rain.”
Outside, thunder rolled — deep and distant — like laughter carried across the Rain
