The scar tissue on my ankle throbs when it's about to rain, a little reminder that even scars hold memories the body won't let go of. My whole body is a weather station these days, a chorus of aches predicting the atmospheric pressure. I used to curse it, but now I think it's almost a conversation, a crude one, but still. A reminder I'm still here, feeling it all. I used to hate the phantom limb pain, convinced it was some cosmic joke. Now, sometimes, on the worst days, I almost welcome the fire—proof that something was once there, that it mattered, that I was whole once, even if just for a little while.