There’s a certain shade of grey the sky turns before the first droplet falls. The air grows heavier, the light struggles to cut through the clouds, and raindrops score a gentle soundtrack, adding to the softness of it all. Weirdly, it feels as though the city behaves differently when it knows it’s about to be washed.

People run to find shelter; streetlamps glow brighter than they ever have in their lives, and pavements gleam with watery reflections. Shoes slap against puddles, headlights spill across the roads, and the sweet smell of wet streets rises as the wind quiets.

As the outside swirls together, creating all kinds of reactions, there is one man who sits by his window watching, warm in the safety of his own home. He loves studying the way raindrops trickle down the glass, and listening as the rain hits the roof.

The rain has a way of teaching him to slow down: to boil the kettle, to curl up with a cup of tea and a book. Perhaps it is the romance of it all, or the nostalgia that arrives with rainy days, but he cannot help reflecting on life when the world outside begins to soften.

He is reminded of a time he waited out the rain beneath a bus shelter, watching the streets perform their quiet rituals. He had a birthday dinner to attend, work to complete. And yet, the weather insisted on a pause. The buses delayed. Puddles filled the streets; the roads grew heavy with traffic. Nothing seemed to move. Nothing special happened, except for the way the rain lingered.

Even now, the rain doesn’t seem in any rush to leave.