When Winter Blooms
he said.
I moved toward him, the distance closed. I settled against his side, his arm coming around me, my head finding his shoulder.
He was warm, the fire was warm. The rain was at the windows.
Neither of us said anything for a while.
"I used to hate storms," he said. After a while. Quietly, into the amber room.
"Used to?"
"Claire liked them, she said they were the world being honest about itself, all the atmospheric pressure that had been building, finally doing something about it."
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