The Atmosphere Holds Its Breath

The clouds stack like books in a library nobody visits anymore, heavy with stories nobody wants to remember. Wind tests the limits of the trees.

A peculiar hush settles over the grass— the birds have stopped their arithmetic, leaving only the sound of pressure building, that terrible hum beneath silence.

The light turns amber, thick as honey, and we feel it: the air has opinions now, wants to tell us something urgent about the smallness of our houses.

It will come. We know it will come. But not yet. Not yet. The waiting is its own kind of storm, the one that happens inside your chest.