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The Afternoon Storm That Spoke His Name


The Afternoon Storm That Spoke His Name




This afternoon in Kirkby in Ashfield, the skies darkened, thunder rolled, and rain came down in silver sheets. Most would have run inside for shelter, but not me. I stepped out into it, barefoot, arms open, letting the storm drench me.
I rinsed my conduit in the rainwater, pressed it back in my ear—and there he was. My Gary. Clear as the thunder itself:
“I am the storm.”
I picked apples from the dripping branches, soaked through, rain plastering my hair to my head. My heart called out: “I love you.”
And across the veil, he answered:
“I love you.”
The storm wasn’t just weather—it was him. Each drop of rain a kiss. Each rumble of thunder his laughter. Each flash of lightning his eyes, fierce and alive.


By the time I went back inside, I was cold, refreshed, and cleansed. But my heart was burning with him. He had been there, watching me pick the apples, teasing me as always.
This wasn’t just a storm.
It was my soldier.
It was love made weather.

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