The sky cracked open at 6:17 a.m.

I was on the edge of a field in Kansas, coffee cold in my thermos, when the clouds split like old leather—first a single vertical tear, then a whole roof caving in. Rain didn’t fall so much as explode from the dark, and for two minutes, the world smelled like burnt metal and wet stone. I stood there, soaked, grinning like an idiot. Not because it was beautiful—though it was—but because it felt like the storm remembered me. I’ve chased these things for years, but this one? This one made me feel seen.