Finding Mars

One

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One.

It never rains the day after July fourth, not on the coast anyway. Not where Juno Wong lives. But in the small hours of the morning, July fifth, when Mars Lennon leaped from the Seascape Cliffs, a crack of thunder was heard. A storm was brewing, and it hadn't stopped raining since.

The water droplets continue to fall heavily against the window of Juno Wong's bedroom, still, some fourteen days later.

Unforeseen, the weather station had dubbed the storm, the words had rolled numbly off of the reporter's lips. A miss calculation, they had furthered, in efforts to regain control of the storm they had seeming lost — or never had.

Juno knew better than this. This, the storm, the rain, it was Mars, and she assumed by now that every other soul in the town of Seascape knew this too.

Mars always had been a quiet riot. Her voice would be strong and anchored when she wanted it to be heard, but at most, she was always placid in her ways.

Juno knows this storm is Mars wanting to be heard, her voice untethered and sounding loud, a presence that can't be missed. Juno only wishes that Mars had forewarned her. That way, Juno wouldn't feel so guilty.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

That is the soft pitter-patter of rain slowly waking Juno from her sleepy trance. A grimace instantly weaves it way through Juno's expression at the noise. It's still raining. Mars is still a storm.

Juno used to love hearing the soft sound of rain against her window in the cold winter months. Now, she's developed a subconscious hate for it. The noise is only a relentless, subliminal reminder that Mars is gone.

Juno, sleepily, awakes to thought.

There she is, wrapped up snug in blankets when she could be out there facing the never ending storm.

Though, that isn't entirely true. Juno has not escaped the storm, her life has only become it.

Since Mars's presence was replaced by falling precipitation some fourteen days, six hours and some seconds ago, this has become Juno's routine. To dread the inevitable awakening.

She pulls the blankets off, letting the cool air hit her bare skin. Even though it's been raining, the air still holds an unusual, musty, warmth. The air smells damp and leaves minute dew drops against the skin.

That's what happens when it rains in July on the coast, Juno supposes. It's the feeling she's been a pardon to — they all have — because it never rains after July fourth. Never, until now. Until Mars.

Juno brings herself to face the long, sharply cornered, window that runs horizontally just above her bed. This is the small opening in her wall that gives her an insight into the ongoings of life outside. Something else, Juno, has been a pardon to for the last two weeks. Life outside.

Two weeks. Mars has now been gone for two weeks. Juno has to keep reminding herself of this. That it wasn't just yesterday Mars jumped, it was weeks ago.

Maybe, it's because, for Juno, Mars's death has never quite felt real, and this is why she has to keep reminding herself. Two weeks, Juno. Not two hours, not two days. Two whole weeks.