The silence after the rain stops

It’s 1:30 and the rain just ended—no fanfare, no thunder, just a sudden hush. I was on the old ridge trail, halfway between the cedars and the stone bridge, and suddenly the world felt like it was holding its breath. Not empty, but full in a way that doesn’t need words. The moss on the logbook post is darker now, swollen with water, and I swear I heard my own pulse for a second. There’s something about that moment—the space between storm and stillness—where everything feels both finished and not yet begun. I stood there too long, probably. But I didn’t want to break it.