The Luthier of Rain

In the attic of the city, a man mends weather with slender tools and a bow of horsehair, coaxing a storm into a quiet chord so gutters hum like low brass.

He oils the hinge of thunder, files the teeth of lightning to kinder syllables, threads fog through the needle of an old clock until its hands learn to soften the air.

Outside, pavements shine like an open score, each puddle a mirror rehearsing the sky; children step on the notes and send them ringing across the parked roofs and sleeping trains.

At dusk he rests his ear against the window, listening for the next ache in the clouds, and the rain, repaired, falls evenly— a stitched hem on the day’s worn sleeve.