By the third day, I was better. No more heat under my skin. No more buzzing in my bones. My stomach stopped twisting. My eyes stayed open longer. I could feel the quiet settling back into my chest, and that meant I was normal again.
I got my mattress back. They didn't say anything when they gave it to me. Just left it near the stairwell, folded and clean. It still smelled faintly of smoke and the dried lavender the laundry maid used when she remembered. My blanket, too, had been returned. It was patched now, a new square of fabric sewn into the corner. I touched the stitch with my thumb, feeling how uneven it was. Someone had done it in a hurry. Still, it was mine.
I dragged it all back to the space under the East stairs and made the bed again. Slow, careful movements. The floor was colder now—it always got colder once the rain started—but the stone no longer made my teeth ache from contact. I could lie down without shivering. That meant something. That meant everything was going back to normal.
Outside, it rained. Not the angry kind. No wind howling, no thunder cracking through the sky. Just… soft rain. Steady and clean. The kind that whispered when it landed. The kind that washed the dust off the garden tiles and softened the air. I liked this kind of rain.
I took my blanket and stood on the porch step, the edge of it pulled up over my shoulders like a cloak. My feet stayed bare on the stone. I didn't step out into the open—I knew better. But I watched.
The raindrops made the leaves shine. Everything looked clearer when it rained. Softer. Like the world had been crying, and now it was rinsing its face in cold water. The garden was quiet. The others were inside, tucked into corners or huddled near the hearth again. I could hear them faintly through the wall behind me—laughing, arguing over biscuits, singing some off-key rhyme. But none of that touched the garden. Here, it was only me and the sound of water meeting earth.
The old cherry tree stood at the far end of the fence, its limbs stripped bare for the season. Thin branches stretched into the gray sky like the fingers of a sleeping giant. A few petals still clung stubbornly to the uppermost twigs, pale and bruised by the cold. The soil beneath it had turned dark and rich with moisture.
I liked how the rain made the world smell different. Like metal. Like stone. Like something fresh had been buried and was just now surfacing. I sat down on the step. Pulled my knees up under the blanket. The porch roof kept me dry, mostly. A few drips snuck through the warped wood, tapping gently against my hair or cheek. I didn't mind. I didn't move.
The cat didn't come that day. He never came when it rained. I think he didn't like the sound. Or maybe the water made his fur heavy. I don't know. I just know I never saw him on days like this. But I imagined him, curled under some shed or stone wall, his mismatched eyes blinking slowly at the wind. I wondered if he missed me when he stayed away. I doubted it.
Time passed slowly on the porch. I didn't count minutes, just raindrops and breath. I liked that better. Sometimes, I traced shapes in the condensation that crept along the stone—spirals, letters I couldn't yet read, lines that ended in nothing. My blanket soaked at the hem. Cold reached my ankles. But I didn't go inside. Not until the light began to fade and the caretakers would start calling names. They never called mine. But eventually, someone would check to see if I was alive.
The garden looked cleaner now. The rain had rinsed the dirt from the leaves, the paths, even the old stone bench by the cherry tree. Everything looked softer, like it had been scrubbed by gentle hands. I liked thinking of the rain that way—as a caretaker no one could see. One that didn't scrub skin too hard or yell when beds got wet. One that cleaned without anger. I wondered if it had a name. If someone out there knew what to call rain when it was kind.
Later, after dinner passed without me, and the fire had burned low, I returned to my place under the stairs. The mattress was still dry. My blanket steamed faintly at the edges, and I rubbed the damp out of it with my palms. The walls creaked from heat and weather.
I curled up. Not from cold. Just habit. Sleep didn't come right away. I stared at the slant of wood above my head, where spiderwebs shimmered in the lantern light from the hall. The house made soft sounds when no one was talking—shifts, sighs, the hush of wind through the roof tiles. In that quiet, I thought about the garden again. About how the rain had touched everything except me.