Here’s a short story about the seasons in the USA, tied to the months of the year.

The snow vanished overnight, replaced by a violent, shocking green. The grass didn’t just grow—it exploded . Trees that had looked like skeletal hands a week ago were suddenly fuzzy with buds. And the rain. God, the rain. It wasn't the soft, warm mist of the equator; it was a cold, sideways needle-rain that soaked you to the bone in ten seconds. But for the first time, Elara saw daffodils pushing through the mud. She felt a pulse.

arrived with a heat she recognized, but different. This was a humid, thick heat, a blanket you wore. Back home, the heat was dry and sharp. Here, in July , the air became soup. The afternoons would build into terrifying, majestic thunderstorms—purple skies, wind that bent the oaks, and then a sudden, cleansing silence. She learned to love the fireflies that blinked on and off in the twilight like tiny, floating emeralds.

Elara had moved from her tiny, sun-bleached town in Ecuador to the sprawling Midwest of the United States in January. She was prepared for many things: a new language, new foods, new faces. But no one had prepared her for the aggression of the American seasons.