A rainstorm has broken the heat. The sound of tires on wet road reminds me of the earliest text I remember writing, which I tried to reproduce in 1994.

Afterstorm
Outside, he could hear the tires slicking over the wet road, but the rain had stopped. The gray became still as the wind slowed, silence occasionally broken by distant thunder. He had been sitting on a hard stool during the whole storm, listening then to the rattling of the window and now to what the storm had left behind.
He knew the sun had cracked from behind a cloud when the shadows of the bars fell once more across the floor.

(Andrew Shields, #111Words, 31 May 2026)