Petrichor

Rubbles. Rain dripping.

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

Dirt and debris flying like birds in the air. Drips of blood. A man with a symbol approaches in the midst, a black and blue insignia. A creed extinct for millennia. 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?"

“I love the smell after it rains.”

"The scent in the air, an earthy fall on the dry soil. There are certain plants that secrete oils when there has been a long drought, bacteria that live in the soil harmonize with a chemical, and together they combine to create the pleasant aroma that releases into the air when it finally rains."