THE PATTERN OF THE RAINDROPS ON THE CORRUGATED ROOF

Dear Delyara, The wind has died down completely, leaving only a heavy, rhythmic downpour that beats against the corrugated iron roof of this bay. If you close your eyes, the sound is almost comforting, like a heavy static blanketing the entire industrial park. I am trying to finalize the digital security protocols for the sanctuary database on my tablet, but the sheer volume of water cascading off the gutters is distracting. It cuts off the distant drone of the motorway, making this metal office feel entirely detached from the rest of the world. The air inside is cold and damp, holding the sharp scent of wet rust and old wool. I pulled my jacket tighter over my chest, propped my chin in my hand, and turned back to the lines of code.