The rain battered trees swaying gently above. Her face softly specked with freckles lie dreamily in my lap as she cooed something impossibly soft about her mother. Her still green eyes always seemed to lament, even as she laughed, twirling her fingers as she gazed out the window. Somewhere, over the soft spring rain, music drifted and the world seemed fashioned to its poignant chords. And somewhere we're still sprawled in my attic bedroom listening to the rain, knowing nothing but love.