The storm had already swallowed most of the sky by the time Charity Woods reached for her coffee. It loomed over the city like a threat disguised as weather; gray, seething, ancient. Outside the penthouse windows, jagged veins of lightning fractured the clouds. Thunder murmured like a prophecy, and the rain came, soft at first, then sharp as needles.

Charity froze.

The ceramic mug trembled slightly in her hands. She hadn’t yet taken a sip. She wouldn’t. Not anymore.

Rain never arrived without demanding something in return.

She set the cup down and exhaled, slow and controlled. The morning had started with her usual routine, yoga at 5:30 a.m., almond protein smoothie, a scan of The New York Times. But that had been before the clouds rolled in, before her body began to hum with that strange, vibrating dread she couldn’t name. Not fear exactly. Not panic either. Something quieter, deeper. An echo.

From somewhere inside, her heartbeat stumbled.

She turned away from the window and stared at the polished marble floor of her Manhattan penthouse, eyes tracking the trembling reflections of raindrops against the glass. She should be packing. Her flight to Atlanta left in three hours, and the Delta Sigma Theta Founders Gala didn’t care about her unresolved grief or unspoken memories. But the storm had rooted her to the floor, one bare foot tucked behind the other, shoulders tense, pulse skipping.

Then came the smell.

Wet wood. Char. Burned paper.

It wasn't real, couldn't be, but the scent was so vivid it wrapped itself around her throat. She closed her eyes, and the air in the room shifted.

Crack!

Thunder rolled across the sky. And just like that, time folded.

She was seven again.

To Be Continued…