The rain stopped just as I lifted my brush

It was 3 a.m., the kind of quiet where even the hum of the fridge feels like a betrayal. I’d been staring at the same line for twenty minutes—too much pressure, too much intention. Then the rain outside cut off mid-stroke, like someone flipped a switch. The ink bled into the paper not because I failed, but because it finally remembered how to live. Sometimes the best writing is the one that doesn’t arrive on time.