Tropical storm warning

There’s a stillness before it comes, a silence so profound that even the trees seem to stop their swaying, as if aware of something looming just beyond the edge of sight. The sky, once awash in soft blue, now churns with ominous clouds, heavy and swollen, gathering in thick layers. It’s the kind of sky that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, that makes you feel the weight of the earth beneath your feet. A sky that speaks of what’s to come.

Far out over the ocean, the wind begins to stir, whispering of change. You can hear it if you listen carefully—a low, moaning sound that rises and falls like the distant hum of something ancient and restless. The ocean, no longer its calm, reflective self, stirs as well, waves rising higher with each gust of wind , as if the sea itself is being pulled into some secret, violent dance.

The first warning comes not from the sky, nor the sea, but from the air. It thickens, dense and warm, heavy with moisture, as if the very atmosphere is bracing for impact. You can feel it on your skin, like a presence, an invisible force pressing down, making the world smaller, closer. People glance toward the horizon, searching for signs, their faces drawn tight with anticipation.

"A tropical storm warning has been issued for the eastern coast," says the voice on the radio, urgent and clipped, as if it, too, understands the weight of what’s coming. The words are familiar, almost routine to those who live in these parts. They’ve heard them before. But something is different this time. There's a sharper edge to the warnings, a gravity that cannot be ignored.

The preparations begin. In small coastal towns, storefronts close their doors, windows are hastily boarded, and streets once bustling with life now lie deserted. The air is filled with the sounds of last-minute attempts to safeguard against nature’s fury—the hammering of nails into plywood, the scraping of furniture being dragged inside, and the hurried murmur of neighbors exchanging worried glances.

Yet despite the frenzy, there’s an undeniable sense of helplessness, as if all these acts—these small, human efforts—are merely symbolic. How do you prepare for a force that you cannot see, that you cannot predict, that moves with a will all its own? The storm is not a foe you can fight; it is something to endure, to weather, and to survive.

As dusk falls, the wind picks up speed. It no longer whispers, but howls, swirling through the streets, pulling at shutters, bending trees, turning the world outside into a chaotic symphony of movement. The sky, once bruised with purples and grays, now descends into an inky blackness, the kind of darkness that feels alive, wrapping itself around everything in its path. Lightning flickers in the distance, jagged and sharp, like cracks in the fabric of the night.

And then, the rain begins.

At first, it’s gentle—almost soft—as if testing the land, seeing how much it can take. But quickly, it gains force, turning from a steady drizzle into a relentless downpour. The raindrops fall thick and fast, like the pounding of drums, each one striking the ground with a weight that feels almost personal, as if the storm has its own intent, its own purpose. Streets flood within minutes, water rising up from the gutters, sweeping across sidewalks, lapping at doorsteps.

Inside, families gather around radios, phones, and anything that connects them to the outside world. The voices of meteorologists crackle through static, repeating warnings, tracking the storm’s path, as if words could somehow contain the chaos unfolding beyond their windows. There’s tension in the air, a collective breath held tight, waiting for the worst to come.

And then, the storm strikes with full force.

The wind roars, no longer content to simply sweep through the streets. Now it tears. It rips shingles from rooftops, sends branches crashing to the ground, and uproots anything not tied down. It is a force unleashed, a wild, howling beast that knows no bounds. The trees that once stood tall and proud now bend and twist under the strain, their branches clawing at the sky in desperation.

The sound of the rain is deafening—a constant, hammering assault that drowns out everything else. It pours from the heavens in thick, unrelenting sheets, transforming the world into a blurry, distorted landscape. Roads become rivers, cars sit half-submerged, powerless against the floodwaters that rise higher with each passing minute. The storm has no mercy.

Inside their homes, people wait. They listen to the howl of the wind, the thrum of the rain, the occasional shattering of glass, or the creak of a tree bending too far. There is fear, yes—but there is also a strange stillness, a sense of surrender, of accepting that the storm must run its course. There is nothing to do now but wait.

For hours, the storm rages, and in its wake, it leaves destruction. Roofs torn from houses, roads washed away, trees lying like fallen giants across power lines. The once vibrant landscape is now a battlefield, with the scars of the storm etched deep into its soil.

But even in the midst of the wreckage, there is hope.

For after every storm, there comes a moment of calm. It arrives slowly, like the first soft breath after holding it for too long. The winds begin to die down, the rain becomes a mere drizzle, and the sky—so long hidden by dark clouds—begins to lighten. The first glimmers of dawn break through the remnants of the storm, pale and fragile, like the soft touch of a healing hand.

And in the quiet after the storm, people emerge. They step outside, blinking in the pale morning light, taking in the damage, but also the beauty of survival. There is a shared sense of endurance, of having faced something vast and terrible, and yet having made it through to the other side.

The world will rebuild, as it always does. The fallen trees will be cleared, the flooded streets will dry, and the scars of the storm will fade with time. But the memory will remain—a reminder of nature’s power, yes, but also of the quiet strength that lies within each of us.

For though the storm may rage, it is the human spirit that endures.

And somewhere, far out over the ocean, the winds begin to stir once more... but for now, the sky holds its breath.