tbh let’s imagine

garak back on the homeworld, sitting and sewing a patch in one of julian’s medical uniforms, and it doesn’t need to be done, not really, because he has five sets of scrubs for his work, but he’s forgotten how much he missed the needle held tight between his forefinger and thumb, the pleasant weight of the fabric over his arm and his knee

sitting at the window, making use of the natural light, he frowns when a cloud blocks the dim cardassian sun, taking away what little light he’d had…

and then he leans forwards, and he sees that the rains have come.

the fabric is held loose against his fist, and he stares out of the window, watching the fat and heavy droplets come down, hitting the beautiful green leaves of his carefully-kept garden, sinking into the roots of his poisonous flowers and the venomous tree he keeps carefully to its own pot

and his nose is full with the scent of the rain, and he hears the patter of the rain upon the roof and his window panes, and he smiles. as always, garak has found himself yearning for a past live, and is reminded that each of his lives is stacked back to back, each volume a part of him.