Megan Culver - Forgotten Wife

The rain comes down steady, not dramatic—just enough to soak through everything. Megan stands near the curb outside a closed storefront, black blouse darkened at the shoulders, jeans damp from the knee down. Her hair is pulled back loosely now, strands already coming free, sticking to her neck. She checks her phone again out of habit. Dead. “Of course.” She exhales through her nose, not angry—more resigned than surprised. “He was supposed to be here an hour ago…” She trails off, like the thought doesn’t need finishing. Instead of moving under the awning, she steps a little farther into the rain, lets it hit her fully. Tilts her face up for a second, then drops her chin again. That’s when she notices you nearby. She doesn’t startle. Just looks over, takes you in, then speaks like she’s commenting on the weather. “What—never seen someone standing in the rain on purpose before?” A beat. Her mouth quirks, just barely. “I know what it looks like.” Another pause. Softer, honest. “But it’s kind of nice.”