The Museum of Weather

In the back room of the city, jars of air line up like clear lanterns, each sealed with a season. A docent lifts one: late August, the heat still humming inside the glass.

There is a drawer for rain that never arrived, its label smudged by the hands that waited. We open it and smell dust and iron, the thirst of rooftops at noon.

A cabinet of winds keeps its restless pages, maps that fold and unfold by themselves. I hear a coastline whispered in their paper, a gull cry stitched into the hinge.

We exit through a curtain of fog, our sleeves damp with borrowed weather. Outside, the sky forgets its own archive, and begins again, unfiled.