The sky remembered how to blush

Just watched a storm roll in over the plains like it was late for a date. Not the kind with thunder and fury—just this slow, layered wash of purple and gold bleeding into the clouds, like someone left a watercolor on a windowsill. I stood there in my boots, rain still damp on my jacket, and felt something stupidly tender. Like the atmosphere itself was remembering what beauty feels like after months of just doing its job. Not even a tornado. Just light, and time, and the quiet.