The title says After the storm, but what lingers is the quiet that comes after—the way light returns carefully, as if it’s testing the room before it settles.
From inside, the world feels framed: curtains at the edge of the glass, a few houseplants keeping watch on the sill, and beyond them a wide stretch of water under a sky still carrying the storm’s leftover breath. The clouds look heavy but softened, like they’ve been wrung out.
A chair faces the window. Feet are up, relaxed, and unhurried, the kind of posture you fall into when there’s nowhere else you need to be. There’s a small glass waiting on the ledge, ordinary and clear, and in that simplicity is the whole point. After weather moves through, it leaves behind a strange calm—an openness that makes you listen for the house to speak: a faint creak, a shift of air, the hush of water in the distance.
Staying in doesn’t always feel like missing out. Sometimes it’s a return. The storm passes, and what’s left is a gentler world, bright around the edges, asking for nothing more than to be noticed.
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.