Re Loader By Rain < 2027 >

By the time I walk back inside, I am not healed. I am not fixed. But I am loaded —fresh cartridge, quiet hammer, steady trigger finger.

I step outside. Cold meets skin. The pavement shines like wet film. And in that moment, I realize: I am being reloaded too. Re Loader By Rain

I close my eyes. Let the water stitch itself into my hair, my collar, my clenched fists. One breath. Two. The sky cycles another round. By the time I walk back inside, I am not healed

And the rain keeps falling. Re loading. Again. Again. Again. I step outside

Not a person. A function. A quiet algorithm the sky runs when the world grows too loud, too dry, too fractured. The rain doesn't ask permission. It doesn't announce itself with thunder every time. Sometimes it just arrives—a soft reset, a background process, a slow drip of mercy.

Re loader.