Memories In The Rain Bleach Novels & Stories

Rain complained that her head hurt and her eyes looked empty. It was the last memory Rain could reach. Suddenly, Rain jolted awake with sweat pouring down her body and tears streaming down her face. She could still feel the coldness of the marble on which she was lying. Her memories replayed even further back. Rain was standing in a building entrance with a courtyard filled with melted snow. Her fingers were numb from the cold. Her eyes looked straight at the entrance of an old building where roses were engraved on each other. The door was ancient, significant, and very black.

The relentless drumming of rain against the panoramic windows of Liam Chen's office created a melancholic rhythm that resonated deep within Kayla. The sky, a bruised purple, seemed to mirror the turmoil brewing in her own heart. It was one of those afternoons where the city lights blurred into hazy halos, and memories, unbidden and persistent, clawed their way to the surface.

“Now rise, rotten apple, and let us be rid of you.” Above her, the neon glowed red, the color more sunset than shocking crimson in the rain-slicked sidewalk at her feet. Across the street, the door to Eidolon waited. The rain still fell, the drops so light they no longer pelted the thin plastic tied beneath her chin. And though she held the keys in hand, her home no less than fifty steps away, she stood, lost in a turbulent sea of raging ghosts and regretful memories.

“Elle can you see me?” “Yes”. I look around and I realize I’m in his head. I’m inside Rain’s memories. Holy shit. This is real. It’s happening. Myself and Rain before me and we’re standing in someone’s living room but whose? “What's happening?” “Shh Just watch and enjoy the show.” Rain winks at me, taking my hand and holding it. The living room is beige with a nineties dusky pink sofa, picture’s hang on the walls of dark wood. More memories of happier times. I want to go to those pictures, to see a younger Rain. But, my body can’t move. “This is my memory. We can't move inside it but we can watch them.” Rain leaned in and whispered in my ear. Fuck even in this world he know’s how to use his

Siran whispered, “And if I do? “Then you will become the part of the bloom that witnesses, not the part that binds.” Somewhere in the real world, rain began to fall. But it didn’t follow weather patterns. It rained only in the Spiral South and only where the threads had gone silent. The rain wasn’t water. It was memory. Thin, silver, and cold. Each drop struck the earth like an old story being remembered. Children dreamed in glyphs. Elders wept without knowing why. And somewhere near the Old Verge, a blind boy sat in a circle of woven light and hummed a note the world had not heard since the Pact was formed

For a moment, I was back there in a life I didn’t want to remember, surrounded by faces I’d long tried to forget. I tore my gaze away, heart pounding a little faster. I couldn’t let it show. Not even a hint of that past could resurface. Not here. Not now. I squared my shoulders and nodded at my reflection. “Time to bleach you out of existence.” The smell of bleach filled the tiny bathroom, making my nose wrinkle in disgust. I felt like I was withering away. It was pungent, seeping into every corner, mixing with the dampness of old tiles and mildew. I worked quickly, fingers gloved and precise, painting over every traitorous strand until I was satisfied. I watched as the brown vanished, repla

“If I look away, it might stop.” “That’s not how rain works.” She almost smiled at that, but the expression never reached her eyes. Across the city, in a quiet study lined with dark wood and memory, Beatrice Whitmore paused mid step. She had been reviewing seating arrangements for the upcoming memorial. Names. Placements. The careful choreography of power and grief. Her hand froze over the parchment as she registered the sound against the tall windows. Rain. Her breath left her slowly, reverently. She closed her eyes.

“I will not act without thinking, no matter how long I have to wait, I have to wait for this opportunity. ************ In autumn, it rains a lot, so the mood changes erratically according to the weather. Palomas Blancas hid in the cave, sadly watching the raindrops fall on the dry leaves, washing the stone steps in front of the cave. She really doesn't like the rain at all, because the raindrops always touch the anxiety in her heart, evoking memories that she wants to forget.

Only fragments. The smell of rain. A woman in a white dress at the bar. A single tear glistening on her cheek. Then another flash — headlights, screeching tires, a shout. My chest tightens as pain rips through my ribs. The memory burns bright for a second before fading again into nothing. I don’t know how long I’ve been here — drifting between the past and the present, between life and something else. But then I hear her again. Softer this time. Closer.

All are dear to me. Oblivioni nomen eius, Novum sciet. During the next hours, one by one, memories disappear until all I remember is Red. I refuse to forget her. Rain Stillwater. My mate. Rain Stillwater. My mate. Rain Stillwater. My mate. Rain Stillwater. My mate. Rain Stillwater. My mate. I repeat over and over in my head. The witch starts her chanting again. Rain Stillwater. My mate. Rain Stillwater. My mate.