Winds gust and panes quake as rain pounds the glass and creeps in through a cracked seal. It pools on the sill beside me, taking—of all forms—that of a heart.
That’s right, I remember. There’s such a thing as “the heart of the storm.”
But it’s always cold.
EO hopes that the next Goliath storm bound for the northeast gets lazy and simply opts to send a postcard instead.