The first thing Elias noticed about the Monterey Rainmeter wasn’t its precision, but its sound.
He laughed. Actually laughed. The sound echoed off the cedar walls, and for a moment, the workshop didn’t feel like a tomb.
After that, Elias bought the Rainmeter to spite the sea. A way of saying: I see you coming. You won’t take me by surprise.
One evening, after a fight with his sister over the estate—she wanted to sell, he wanted to stay—Elias sat in the dark workshop, staring at the Rainmeter. A single tear slid down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.
She thought he was talking about a ghost.
He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the Pacific—black, endless, indifferent. For the first time, he didn’t feel like it was staring back with his father’s eyes.