"Rainproof Beauty on Green Peaks" 2. "Mascara Beneath the Mountain Storm"

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In the remote highlands of Viridia, where the green mountains rise like ancient emerald waves and mist curls like breath from the earth, there stood a solitary lodge nestled in the folds of the landscape. This was where Amira had come—alone, and not by accident.

The rain had started just as her boots crunched the gravel outside the wooden door. A soft drizzle at first, like the hesitant fingertips of a pianist, and then a steady whisper, threading its way down her coat and into the seams of her thoughts.

Inside, the cabin was rustic but welcoming. She lit a fire, shrugged off her soaked jacket, and let her bag drop to the floor with a sigh. As she unpacked, a small black tube rolled from her makeup pouch and stopped at the edge of the table.

A mascara tube. Matte black. Sleek. Ordinary.

Amira picked it up and turned it over in her hand. “Raincoat Lashes,” it read in tiny, silver print.

She smiled.

It was a sample, given to her by a woman in a cosmetics store two days before she left the city. “Try this if you’re going somewhere wild,” the woman had said with a wink. “It’s storm-proof. Mountain-tested.”

Amira hadn’t thought much of it then, but now it felt symbolic. She wasn’t here for selfies or glamor. She was here to shed the layers—the expectations, the noise, the pressure to always be polished. But even now, standing in solitude miles from anyone who cared, she felt the tug. The desire to look good. Or maybe, to feel good.

She opened the tube. The wand slid out with a gentle click, coated in smooth, glossy black. Reflexively, she moved to the cracked mirror above the sink and applied it—one eye, then the other. Her lashes lengthened, darkened, curled upward like rain-slicked ferns.

She stared at herself. Raincoat lashes.

Outside, the rain intensified, lashing at the windows, smudging the distant view of the green mountain. She stepped out onto the porch, letting the droplets hit her cheeks, streak down her neck. She tilted her face to the sky and let the rain baptize her.

She didn’t cry, but she wanted to. There was something about the mountain, the storm, the silence—it brought all the unsaid things to the surface. Grief. Regret. The ache of something lost.

Amira had come here to remember. Or to forget.

A year ago, she had stood in a glass skyscraper with a different kind of rain—the metaphorical kind—trickling through her life. Her job had collapsed. A relationship had ended in shouts and slammed doors. Her father had passed quietly in a hospital bed she didn’t reach in time. It was too much. Everything at once.

So she did something she never did. She booked a cabin in a place she couldn’t pronounce, in a land of green giants and thunder.

Now here she was, mascara running into the storm, daring it to ruin her.

But it didn’t. She dabbed at her face with her sleeve and checked the mirror again. Her mascara hadn’t smudged. Not even a little.

She laughed, startled at how strange and light it sounded.

The days passed with the slow grace of fog. Amira hiked in the wet woods, journaled by candlelight, and sat still enough to hear her own breath. She began to feel her edges again—not sharp and crumbling like before, but solid. Quietly defined.

One morning, after a night of thunder that rattled the walls, the rain stopped. She woke to silence so profound it made her ears ring. The sun had come, shy and golden, and the mountain was no longer a shadow—it was a vibrant, vivid monument to survival.

She brewed coffee and stood on the porch, mascara in hand again. Not out of vanity this time, but ritual. She applied it like armor, not to impress, but to witness herself.

A small bird landed on the railing beside her, ruffling wet feathers. She smiled at it.

“I’m still here,” she whispered.

It chirped once, as if in agreement, and flew off toward the peak.

She stayed another three days. When it came time to leave, she packed the mascara last. It no longer felt like just makeup. It felt like proof. That she could endure. That she didn’t need to be untouched by rain to be strong.

On the train back to the city, she caught her reflection in the window. Her lashes curled like black petals, untouched by tears or storms.

And she knew then: the mountain hadn’t washed her clean. It had reminded her she was never dirty.

When she stepped off the train and into the blur of urban life, the air felt heavier, faster. But Amira walked with a pace like thunder held in her chest. People bumped into her, lights flashed, someone shouted into a phone nearby—but she was steady.

A billboard above the station flashed an ad: “Raincoat Lashes – For the woman who weathers everything.”

She laughed again, a sound bright enough to catch stares.

She didn’t need the ad. She’d lived it.