The rain stopped just as I lifted my brush

I was mid-stroke, ink already bleeding into the paper like a confession. The window was fogged from the cold outside, and for a second, I thought I saw someone standing there — not in the reflection, but beyond it. Then the rain cut off. Not slowed. Just gone. Like the world held its breath. I didn’t finish the line. Let it hang, unfinished. Sometimes the best work is what you don’t complete.