Petrichor

Rubbles. Rain dripping.

A black and white moving silhouette in a captured portrait, as writing and voice repeat. Vanishing. Turning it to see one more time, one last time. Duty is the death of love… and love is the death of duty. If only another chance…

Clashes echo in the background. Dirt and debris flying like birds in the air. Dripping of blood down the road of the cheeks. It was a hellfire. A man with a symbol approaches in the midst, a black and blue insignia. The color of vulnerability, sensitivity, compassion, surrender. Letting go and releasing, a mend of hope. It was inevitable, in the instinct. A creed extinct for millenniums. Broken wings. As blue changes to red.

Summer walked onto the porch beside drizzling raindrops, hanging flowers that dripped ever so gently. Her father looked at her.

“Do you smell that Summer?"

"Smell what?"

"The scent in the air, the smell right after it rains, an earthy scent when rain falls on the dry soil. Certain plants secrete oils when it hasn't rained in a long time, and when it rains they release it into the air. Bacteria that live in the soil also release a chemical and together they combine to create the pleasant aroma scent when rain hits the ground."