When the sky remains dry, the city holds its breath. The lights tremble, like chests that refuse to yield. Every window is a closed ear, listening to silence. Then a drop grazes the wall and the city stops to hear. Then the rain takes the pen and writes slow letters on the walls. These letters expand the lungs of houses, open ways for breath. Each mark is a beat that dances between walls and neons. The city breathes again, when the rain signs its own time.