Flipping through the pages of yet another piece of fiction, I had an epiphany. There was something wrong. The book was well-paced. Neat plot. Then what was it? After a few moments of silence, I got the answer.
As I stepped out of the building, the evening sun washed me over as if it was trying to have a final word before it leaves, followed by another familiar feeling. It was the petrichor. The wondrous fragrance of the first rain of the season.