They hid things away in every nook. So many things. So many things they forgot what they had. And when they found things from storage, they wondered if they were collecting things they already had, or acquiring things anew.

The storm drew a maze on the cliffside, as the rain impacted, or drifted down. And in the morning, the storm was gone, and the place was quieter, and a handful of traces on the rock remained.

He remembered so well. The sunshine. The leaves. He made a painting so he wouldn't forget, and then others remembered a memory.

The ship was late, the food was bad, the weather was stormy, and the company was argumentative (probably due to the conditions). But in the end, if not the beginning, it became a story some liked to tell.

The rain danced on the roof and he stood outside, feeling patters on the hood of his raincoat. The downpour was louder than the song in his earbuds. But he could still hear that song intermittently. Interspersed with another.

They didn't know what to say, so they laughed. They hugged their sides and stared at each other. It had been a long time. Only with such acknowledgement, it still didn't feel real. But, tentatively, long after it was obvious in their heads, it was obvious in their hearts, too.

A thousand times they scrambled over the hill to school, and a thousand times they walked steadily, growing up. A thousand times the hill was remembered, after moving away, while a thousand tears weathered it down. But one return. One more scramble. Sometimes memories came back.

It was an exhale and also a song.

The road was like a thread winding around a mountain-spoke. Paved step by step. So thin above.

The sea was a mirror to stars, and a ship swam across this mirror, the ripples coursing light-years and buffeting fish.

Puddle water nursed around the boot, only to ripple with the next step.

The challenge looked a little different to everyone. Like the parable of the elephant with very different tusks and legs and tail. The reward looked a little unique to everyone, too. Because the angles of reaching it were all different.

They painted the shadow, vociferously. But it would never quite stay put, and nothing they said could make a difference.

They weren't sure if they forgot something, and then, too late, remembered they'd wanted to forget.

The carpets crossed each other like a maze with no walls. This design, and that, and both, and one hidden under the other. And every way would get across the room, but each way was a choice.

The storm subsided, gently. It hadn't been gentle in the act. Ad hoc rivulets flowed around fallen branches. Little gusts sprayed water between objects even though water no longer fell from the upper sky. But the howls were gone, replaced by brushstrokes of the cleaning crews.

The road was so ragged. Unsteady dirt. No one brushed the outdoors, and no one was supposed to, yet it just wasn't the place to be. Because you went places on this road.

The little snow globe sat on a desk for a long time. A closet for longer. And then . . . a child's room. Stacked on a shelf with other toys. It hadn't been made as a child's toy. Made as advertisement for a real estate agency. The snow collected on the sky of its bauble.