Season: Rainy

This is the season of pause. The farmer welcomes it, feeling the soil drink deep. The city curses it, watching gutters swell and traffic congeal into rust-colored rivers. But the rain doesn’t care for schedules. It erases footprints, softens edges, turns gravel roads into mirrors of sky.

It arrives not with a single clap of thunder, but with a slow, patient claim on the world. One morning, the sky is a low, bruised gray, and the air—once crisp—has turned dense and heavy, like breathing through a damp cloth. rainy season

The first hour of rain is chaos: children shrieking as they run indoors, the frantic scramble for laundry on the line, the sharp percussion of drops hitting corrugated tin roofs. But by the second hour, a truce is made. The rhythm steadies. The streets empty, and the world shrinks to the size of a windowpane. This is the season of pause