The Museum of Lost Weather

The archivist wheels out a cart of clouds, jarred fogs labeled by year and river, a shelf of thunder in glass bells— I hold one up and hear a small storm breathe.

In the gallery of July, a sun is framed, all heat and apricot, a still life of thirst; the floorboards sweat with light and a fan turns like a slow compass.

Downstairs, winter is kept in velvet drawers: snow stitched into squares, crisp as linens, a brittle wind folded like a letter that never learned to speak your name.

Before I leave, I press a palm to the exit door and feel tomorrow's rain vibrating, unlit; the building hums, remembering each sky, and lets me go with a pocketful of weather.