It was raining hard that afternoon. The kind of rain that doesn’t just fall—it pours, pounds, and insists on being heard. Windows blurred into watercolor frames, and the world outside softened into gray.
There was nowhere to go and nothing urgent to do. Just the rhythm of droplets on rooftops, the occasional sigh of wind, and the comfort of dry socks indoors. In moments like these, time slows down.
Maybe that’s why we remember storms so vividly—not for their chaos, but for the stillness they carve out in our days.