Wheeling Gull Isle in the cracks of our skin there’s a memory of a dove

outside summer storms brewed. naoyuki could hear the soft pitter-patter of raindrops falling onto leaves outside of their den, soaking into the sunburnt soil, and he could smell the strong, earthy scent of an incoming storm stinging his nostrils as he made his way toward the exit.

sightless eyes opened wide, his head tilting upward to feel the droplets fall. yuki wanted to know if it would hurt him, or if they would be as soft, as gentle as he’d imagined. he would remain standing there for some time, unless someone came to wrangle him inside.