The rain is heavy. The sound of it falling—somewhere showering, somewhere pouring, somewhere striking. And all these sounds come together to create a space for an internal silence, where the world you see is slowly being washed.
Ripples of rain spread across the streets of Srinagar. It feels as if no one lives here—empty streets, windows of every house closed. The mountains disappear behind clouds, while birds chirp softly on window panes.
I behold the greyish-white sky from the right window of my bedroom. The window has an arc shape, mirroring a crescent moon.
I look at a tree on the other side of the road; I have watched it from winter to spring. Time has transformed its barren black branches into green foliage. In winter, the tree spoke of history; in the spring rain, it reveals beauty and hope.
The rain splashes against my window as I hold a warm cup of tea. Cinnamon reminds me of him. I smile when nature speaks to me, for in it, I find parts of him.
Something inseparable—something not to keep, but to live along with. Beyond the clouds, the mountains appear again—freshly snowed, still standing tall.