For weeks, the rain hadn’t stopped. The sky, once a gentle gray, had deepened into something heavier—an unbroken lid pressing down on the valley. Streets had turned into rivers, and the small town of Linton seemed to be dissolving under the endless downpour.

Windows dripped constantly. The smell of damp earth and mold filled every house. Neighbors who once waved across fences now stayed inside, their voices muffled by the steady drum of water on rooftops.

The river that ran through the town had swelled far beyond its banks, claiming playgrounds and fields, swallowing wooden benches whole. Trees leaned, their roots slick and exposed. The sound of distant sirens came and went like the tide.

When the clouds finally broke, sunlight pierced through in thin, trembling lines. But the streets no longer belonged to people—they belonged to the reflections: the sky in puddles, the houses doubled in the water, the quiet aftermath of too much weather.