Chapter 3 Page3

The first sign came in the form of a letter.

It arrived on Elian's window ledge one morning, folded into the shape of a water lily. The paper shimmered faintly, as if dew had kissed its edges. No stamp. No handwriting. Just a symbol: a spiral of tiny blue lines that reminded Elian of whirlpools or weather maps.

He hesitated, then unfolded it.

Inside was a single sentence written in silver ink: "Come when the clock strikes thirteen. Bring nothing but your memory."

He stared at it, heart thudding. Thirteen? Virelia's clocks only went to twelve. Thirteen didn't exist. Not officially.

Elian tucked the letter into the hollow spine of his cloud book and tried to ignore the way the room seemed to hum around him afterward.

That night, he climbed to the attic and waited. At midnight, he heard the usual twelve chimes from the cathedral bell tower. He counted each one aloud. But then-

A thirteenth chime.

Low, distant, and impossible.

The attic window creaked open, unlatched by a wind that hadn't blown in decades. Beyond the glass, the air shimmered faintly, as if something unseen rippled through the fabric of reality.

Elian stepped forward.

And for the first time in his life, he felt a drop of rain on his cheek.

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The rain didn't fall like it did in stories. It was quiet, hesitant-as if it had forgotten how.

Elian stood still, letting the drop slide down his skin. His breath caught in his throat. The air smelled... alive. Like wet stone and old pine and something older still-like the pages of a book that hadn't been opened in centuries.

Then the window widened-not physically, but perceptually-as if the world beyond it had deepened. The rooftop across from his attic dissolved, replaced by mist and sky. A stepping stone path appeared, stretching out into the clouds.

Without thinking, Elian stepped onto it.

Each footfall echoed like droplets on wood. He passed floating lanterns, each containing a small flame shaped like a teardrop. Strange vines curled in the mist, whispering names he didn't understand. He could feel the pressure in the air shifting, as if the laws of gravity were suspended by reverence.

At the end of the path stood a woman.

She wore a cloak made of fog and feathers, her hair braided with lightning threads. Her eyes shimmered with clouds.

"You heard the thirteenth chime," she said.

Elian nodded.

"You remember."

"Yes."

"Then you are one of us."

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They called themselves the Pluvium-a scattered few who remembered what the world refused to. They met in forgotten places: abandoned observatories, overgrown train stations, rain-stained pages of censored books. Their mission was simple: restore the memory of rain.

The woman introduced herself as Caeli, Keeper of the Thirteenth Bell. She led Elian into the Rain Archive, a place suspended between moments. It wasn't a building-it was a feeling, a shape hidden in the folds of reality. Inside, shelves rose like waterfalls frozen in mid-cascade, filled with glass vials, soaked scrolls, and storm-drenched relics.

Elian's breath caught. "What is this place?"

Caeli smiled. "These are the stories rain tried to tell before it was silenced."

She handed him a raindrop.

It floated in her palm, glowing faintly.

"Memory condensed," she said. "Hold it."

The moment Elian touched it, images flooded his mind: a child dancing in a field of bluebells, a woman singing lullabies to the rhythm of falling water, a forest breathing in relief after a summer storm.

He staggered.

"It's real," he whispered.

"Yes," Caeli said. "And if you can hold onto it, you can help others remember."

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Elian trained with the Pluvium over what felt like days, though time in the Archive did not follow clocks. He learned the different dialects of drizzle, how to decode thun