Behind the thick glass is a gray veil of rain. The streams flow down the window in long transparent paths, blurring the outlines of the urban landscape. In this shaky, muted reality, the world outside the window has turned into a series of muted silhouettes — people with umbrellas, like dark shadows, glide across the wet asphalt.
The room is dim and quietly warm. The girl stands at the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. Her reflection is barely noticeable: a thin profile, thoughtful gaze, gazing into the distance. There is no sadness in her eyes, but rather a quiet concentration, as if she is trying to discern something important in this monotonous rhythm of drops.
The umbrellas of passers-by resemble bizarre flowers that have opened despite the bad weather. Some move quickly, hiding from the rain, while others move slowly, as if they don't notice the dampness. Everything around is saturated with soft, diffused light — no sun, no harsh shadows, only muted tones and the endless whisper of rain.
The girl does not hurry away from the window. There is a special harmony in this moment: movement outside, peace inside. It's like she's on the edge of two worlds, watching the rain blur the lines between reality and a dream.
