The way the rain stopped just as I reached the bus stop

I was under the awning, damp and grumpy, when the downpour cut out like someone flipped a switch. The air smelled like wet pine and old asphalt — that particular city forest scent after a storm. A man in a green coat walked past without looking up, then paused, turned back, and stared at the sky for a full ten seconds. I didn’t move. Neither did he. Then he kept walking. I wonder if he felt it too — that tiny, stupid moment where the world seemed to exhale.