The rain in Greywick wasn’t just a backdrop; it was a presence, palpable and consuming. Each drop seemed to linger, clinging to skin and clothes as though it had a will of its own. The air was thick with dampness, a cloying humidity that made breathing feel like drawing in water. The streets shimmered with an endless film of gray, reflecting the lifeless sky above. Buildings stood like weathered sentinels, their facades streaked with blackened grime, windows fogged and leaking. The wooden walkways, hastily built above the flooded streets, groaned with every step, their surfaces slick with moss and algae. There was no sound but the endless patter of rain, a ceaseless rhythm that filled the silence left by the absence of laughter, voices, or life. As Clara drove deeper into the town, the rain seemed to grow heavier, as if pressing her into the earth. The headlights of her car barely cut through the murky haze, illuminating ghostly shapes of abandoned storefronts and half-submerged vehicles. It wasn’t just the rain that weighed on her—it was the feeling that something was watching, lurking in the shadows of every alley and rippling beneath the rising.
The Rain That Never Stops Comments