Sunday returns with its familiar promise of adventure—a single, precious day carved out for wandering, after six straight days of work and routine. It is meant to be a day for the hills, for high places and long views. But one glance outside tells me the weather has other ideas. Rain lashes the windows with fierce determination, and the horizon dissolves into a long, unbroken smear of grey. The world looks as though it has been washed of colour overnight.
This morning unfolds beneath a muted sky, pale and endless, where grey stretches like a soft veil over the world. There is no sharpness, no contrast—just a gentle, uniform hush that seems to press the landscape into stillness. The ground glistens from last night’s rain, each puddle reflecting the low clouds above, creating mirrors of misty silver. I can almost hear the faint drip of water from saturated leaves, a quiet percussion that sets the rhythm of our walk. I sense the rain may return, but for now, the air is cool and thick with moisture, a gentle caress on the skin that makes every breath feel cleansing.
There’s a rhythm in the wild when rain begins to fall—a quiet, persistent drumming that threads through the trees, across mossy rocks, and along the winding paths. I step out into it without hesitation, letting the droplets meet my hood with tiny, soothing taps, each one a gentle reminder that I am alive, that the world is alive.