Rain patters against the window, a steady rhythm that blends into the low hum of his headphones. One earbud is quieter than the other, but he doesn’t mind. It makes the music feel distant, like a half-forgotten memory. He leans against the cool glass, watching droplets race down in uneven paths, the gray sky stretching endlessly beyond them.

He scrolls past the loud songs, the bright ones, landing instead on something slow—blues, synthwave, maybe an old outlaw country tune that sounds like it was recorded on a rainy night just like this. He doesn’t dance. He just listens. Taps his fingers against the fogged-up pane.

The rain makes everything quieter, softer. He likes that. It gives him room to think. Every song is a story, and he’s still searching for the one that feels like his. But for now, the rain is enough.