The quiet before the thunderstorm hits

It’s 12:30 on a Saturday, and the air feels like it’s holding its breath. I just finished a sketch of a lymph node cross-section—red so deep it looks like it’s bleeding—and now I’m staring out the window at the sky turning that strange greenish-grey. The kind that means something’s coming. I love this hour, when the world slows down just enough to notice how your shoes creak when you walk across the floor. Old ones, not new. Always old.