Before this, storms did not know where they were going.
They gathered because they could.
They grew because nothing told them not to.
They moved when the sky felt full enough to spill.
No one remembers the first storm that met Pebble.
Only what changed afterward.
Pebble saw it forming and decided it looked interesting.
Dark clouds, low pressure, a lot of unnecessary waiting.
She ran.
She did not mean to challenge it.
She did not mean to interrupt.
She simply chased the part of it that moved.
The storm did not expect to be followed.
It shifted.
Pebble adjusted.
It turned again.
Pebble did not slow down.
The storm panicked—not like a creature, but like a thing that suddenly realized it could be observed.
It chose a direction and fled with conviction.
It has done that ever since.
Now, storms arrive already moving.
They curve around places instead of sitting on them.
They leave as decisively as they come.
When a storm changes course suddenly,
when the wind snaps sideways,
when the rain slants as if reconsidering—
People say, “Pebble must be nearby.”
To this day, storms are still running.
They do not remember Pebble clearly anymore—
only the feeling of being followed,
of being noticed,
of being unable to stop without consequence.
So they keep moving.
They change direction suddenly.
They leave early.
They curve away from places that look too quiet.
Not because Pebble is always there—
but because she might be.
Storms learned not to stay.
