“You want to know who I am,” she said. “I am the one who spins the rain. Every drop that falls on the Meseta passes through my hands first. I weigh it. I measure it. I decide whether it will be a soft shower that brings the barley or a flood that sweeps away a bridge.”
“The roads are the rain,” he replied, and slid a shot of orujo across the zinc bar. “Drink. You will need warmth.” The Rain in Espana 1
She stopped the wheel entirely. The silence was sudden and absolute. Outside, the rain had ceased. The world was holding its breath. “You want to know who I am,” she said