Zander loves to watch the rain. The rhythmic pitter-patter of tiny raindrops beating against the window, the hazy water-filtered view of the world outside. And, afterwards - the puddles, the smell, the droplets dangling from drenched leaves.
But there is another kind of rain that he sees. It is a rain he sees when he sets his eyes - his odd, mismatched, unsettling eyes - on another, and gazes deep into their very soul.
Sometimes he sees a drizzle, light and gentle, like the comforting first signs of spring. And he smiles and knows that seedlings will sprout and flowers will bloom, and all will be alright.
Sometimes he sees a thunderstorm, with flashes of lightning streaking amidst the torrential downpour. It makes him cringe from the sheer angry force behind it all, for he knows that the storm will never fully abate.
Sometimes he sees sleet, cold and icy, an uninviting world of solemn gray. And he wishes he could somehow warm it up, melt the ice, bring life and color to this world.
Perhaps his eyes are a blessing - what power, what knowledge, after all. But he feels, sometimes, that his eyes are more a curse. What is power if you have only eyes to see, but no hands to stop the rain, build a shelter, hold an umbrella? He feels powerless, in front of all this rain.
But there is one thing about this rain that he loves to see.
The rainbow that springs up, sometimes, filling their eyes, set against the sunny glow of their faces. This rainbow, he thinks, is more powerful than he could ever be.
But there is another kind of rain that he sees. It is a rain he sees when he sets his eyes - his odd, mismatched, unsettling eyes - on another, and gazes deep into their very soul.
Sometimes he sees a drizzle, light and gentle, like the comforting first signs of spring. And he smiles and knows that seedlings will sprout and flowers will bloom, and all will be alright.
Sometimes he sees a thunderstorm, with flashes of lightning streaking amidst the torrential downpour. It makes him cringe from the sheer angry force behind it all, for he knows that the storm will never fully abate.
Sometimes he sees sleet, cold and icy, an uninviting world of solemn gray. And he wishes he could somehow warm it up, melt the ice, bring life and color to this world.
Perhaps his eyes are a blessing - what power, what knowledge, after all. But he feels, sometimes, that his eyes are more a curse. What is power if you have only eyes to see, but no hands to stop the rain, build a shelter, hold an umbrella? He feels powerless, in front of all this rain.
But there is one thing about this rain that he loves to see.
The rainbow that springs up, sometimes, filling their eyes, set against the sunny glow of their faces. This rainbow, he thinks, is more powerful than he could ever be.