Petrichor. Velvet blue sky, exploded with candleflicker sparks of fireflies. The air slicks across your skin like wet silk, and the voice cries out again.
The voice that echoed through your head, drawing you out of the safety of walls, of lights, of familiar places. A haunting, or a temptation, and does the name for it even matter, because here you are, in the aftermath of the storm, searching your way through the destruction.
A voice, and the return of thunder. Burnt ozone of lightning-struck air, and a copper-electric taste in your mouth, and you walk anyway. Past the comfort of landscaped lawns and paved roads. Into a place where everything is not quite, is slantwise and canted, where ghosts of possibilities raise the hair on your skin and crawl across your flesh.
A call, and an answer, and you shed your skin, and follow the storm.