Where the Rain Composed Its Own Symphony

The piano does not fear the storm. It wears the rain’s reflection like a gown of shattered glass, its keys untouched but thrumming with potential. Outside, the world is all haste and hunger—but here, in this carpeted hush, time bends around the curve of polished wood.

The bench waits. It has waited before. It knows the weight of hands that might press warmth into its velvet, of fingers that might tease order from chaos. The rain drums the window, but the piano needs no metronome; its rhythm is the heartbeat of the room, slow and certain.

This is where storms come to be rewritten. Where lightning might become arpeggios, thunder a bassline. Or perhaps the keys will stay still, and the piano will simply watch, content to let the weather play its own discordant sonata.