The rain stopped just as I lifted my brush

I was halfway through a character when the sky exhaled. One moment, the paper was bleeding; the next, silence. Not even a drip from the eaves. I stared at the ink—still wet, still trembling—like it knew something I didn’t. For a second, I thought about letting it stay like that: unfinished, unclaimed. Then I remembered how much I hate clean edges. So I added the final stroke. It came out crooked. Perfect.