Some days are made of downpours.

Someone asks a question and suddenly there is a click from the lock. The utterance of a name is an invisible hand that turns the knob, that opens the shut door.

The memories come rolling out and the intrusion of remembering, so painstakingly thwarted many sunsets ago, resumes where it had been left off.

We end up finding ourselves in the last place we want to be: inside a dark, erstwhile forgotten room, counting could-have-beens.