Rain keeps tapping at the windows, turning the afternoon into a softer version of itself. The light gets milky, the edges blur, and suddenly everything indoors feels more intentional—like the day has narrowed down to a few good objects and the time to notice them.
On the marble table, it’s a small still life: a book waiting mid-thought, a candle in cut glass holding a steady flame, and two cocktails that look like they belong to different moods. One is pale and creamy, the other dark and amber, finished with a curl of orange peel that catches what little light is left.
This is what I like about rainy days: they make rituals out of almost nothing. Pages turn louder. Ice settles with a quiet crack. The room smells faintly of citrus and warm wax, and the story in your hands feels closer than the weather outside.
I don’t want big plans when it rains. I want a chapter that pulls me under. I want a drink that changes as it warms—sharp at first, then gentler, then gone. I want the candle to do its small work, insisting that coziness is a real, practical thing.
Outside, the rain keeps going. Inside, the world can wait a little longer.
