Maybe her grandmother had made that one up. It didn’t matter. Ana pulled a knitted blanket from the chair—the one that still smelled faintly of lavender and old books—and settled into the window seat. The rain picked up, a crescendo of tiny hammers on tin and tile.
A fresh gust shook the tree outside, and a cascade of water streamed down the gutter. She thought of another quote, not written in the journal but one her grandmother had whispered once, tucking Ana into bed during a thunderstorm: quotes about rainy night
She’d been reading old journals again. The pages were soft and warped from years of neglect, but the ink still held. Her grandmother had filled them with quotes, torn from books and magazines, pasted beside handwritten observations. Tonight, Ana had opened to a page dog-eared and stained with what looked like tea. Maybe her grandmother had made that one up
“The rain to the wind said, / ‘You push and I’ll pelt.’ / They so smote the garden bed / That the flowers actually knelt.” — Robert Frost. The rain picked up, a crescendo of tiny
She closed her eyes and listened. Not as someone waiting for the storm to pass. But as someone who had finally learned to stay.