She chases thunderstorms the way others chase sales. In every lightning strike, she reads messages: coordinates, names, warnings. Her father, a retired storm chaser, says the sky is done talking. She follows the flashes anyway, collecting secrets in a weathered journal. One night, a bolt spells her own name. The storm pauses, waiting. She writes back in sparks from a campfire: "Got it. Thanks." The thunder rumbles like a distant laugh of approval.
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