Summer rain

It wasn't ordinary rain, but salvation.

The midday had reached its peak of harshness. The sun was melting like a piece of heated copper above our heads, and the air was thick like stagnant hot oil. Even the midday cicadas had stopped their chirping, hiding in the shadows of the stones. In that heavy silence, the first signs arrived: a dry, hot breeze suddenly swirled like a frightened animal, carrying the scent of wet dust before a single drop had fallen. Then a dark cloud rose from behind the hills, as if the earth was turning a burning white page to a damp gray one.

And the rain exploded.

It didn't fall, it poured down all at once as if the bottom of the sky had split open. Its drops were large, heavy, like beads of cold glass striking the scorched earth, emitting a steamy hiss. The sound of the rain on the tin roofs was like great drums beating down the world's silence. The watery curtain obscured everything, turning the distant into a pencil sketch on wet paper.

And as I stood by the window, I saw him repaint the city. He washed the tired faces of the rooftops, covered the streets with a shiny layer that reflected the window lights. He turned the gray pavement into a black mirror, reflecting the lights of passing cars like wet meteors. And I watched children run in the shallow puddles, their laughter piercing the roar of the rain like crystal.

And it didn't last long. As suddenly as it began, the drumming gradually stopped. The downpour faded to a whisper, then to a sparse dripping from the gutters. The sun suddenly revealed itself, but it was no longer harsh; it became warm, golden, shining on every drop hanging on the leaves. It began to weave a colorful arc over the houses, a colorful promise of peace.

I breathed. The air was no longer scorching but refreshing, carrying the scent of clean earth and washed leaves. Even the sound of the returning birds was different: clear, wet with joy. And I knew that summer rain is not just water falling from the sky; it is a moment when the universe wipes clean the harsh page of heat and writes on it a single, refreshing line of life before the sun returns.