About three months after Cory passed, our family gathered one evening around a fire, still tender and finding our footing in a world that no longer looked the same.

Earlier that day, Cory’s father had run a marathon, and as night fell, we sat together talking quietly about Cory, about running, and about the way movement had always been part of how he expressed himself.

My son read a poem he had written about Cory—running and dancing with him.

I was moved to tears, overwhelmed by gratitude for this circle of love and for the way Cory was still so present among us.

I shared one of Cory’s old posts and a video of him running and dancing, reflecting on life and on what the process had taught him.

As we sat there, something unusual happened.

Out of nowhere, we heard the sound of heavy rain rushing through the trees.

It was so distinct that I stood up and held my arms out, expecting to feel drops on my skin—but there was nothing.

The sky above us was completely clear.

There had been no wind before, and as quickly as it began, the sound built into a strong, unmistakable rush of wind that swept through the trees surrounding us.

It lasted only seconds.

Then everything was calm again.

No rain. No clouds. Just stillness.

What mattered was that we all experienced it together.

We all knew the air had been still before.

We all heard it.

We all felt it.

In that moment, there was no questioning. No interpreting. Just presence.

Our loved ones are constantly trying to communicate with us—in quiet ways, in unexpected ways, and sometimes in ways so clear they stop us in our tracks.

This was just one of the many ways Cory was speaking to us, reminding us that he was still near, still part of our lives, still moving with us.

He was there.

And we knew it.