The silence after the rain stops

It’s 4:07 now, and the forest is still wet with the kind of rain that doesn’t drum but settles—like breath held too long. I stood at the edge of the old trail for ten minutes just listening. Not to birds or wind, but to the way the air itself seemed to remember the sound of falling. The moss on the logbook post is darker now, swollen like it’s holding its own secrets. I almost didn’t notice how quiet it had become—not empty, but full. Like something was waiting to be named, but not yet.