There is a kind of loneliness that only arrives with rain. Not the sharp loneliness of absence, but something older — a vellichor, a wistfulness without object. You stand at the window and the world becomes a watercolour.

The streets remember every footstep. The puddles hold the sky upside-down.

I have been trying to name this feeling for years. Perhaps it needs no name. Perhaps some things live better unnamed, like foxes in cities — glimpsed, beautiful, gone.