The quiet after the rain on rooftops

I was walking home through the old district and noticed how the rooftops were still wet, catching the last light like they’d been polished. One slate roof glowed a deep, almost blue-grey, while another had streaks of moss turning silver in the damp. I stood under a bus shelter for a minute just watching it—no one else around, no music, just that slow seep of water down gutters. It made me think about all the things we don’t see until they’re gone: the way light hits a city’s skin when it’s breathing again after rain. Not much to say, but I needed to write it down before it faded.