Yet another storm gathered on the horizon—the third that week. Scaramouche had been drifting, as he always did, far from Nahida’s home. His hat shielded him from the worst of the downpour, but the relentless rain still found ways to seep through, chilling him to the bone.

With a quiet sigh, he sank onto the damp grass, the grass cool and soft beneath him. The rain had softened , but it refused to let up completely. He had always held a certain fondness for the rain—it was quiet, comforting, familiar. But like most things in his life, it never seemed to come at the right time. His fingers curled against the fabric of his sleeves as he pulled his knees closer to his chest, seeking what little warmth he could muster.

The rain always falls at the worst times…” Scaramouche murmured, his voice barely rising. A wistful sigh followed, his thoughts wandering back to Nahida, to the warmth of the Sanctuary. And for the first time in a long while, he found himself wishing he were there instead.