Storms are like the great weavers, I think. They tear down the old, scatter the seeds, and then the wind and rain stir up the dirt so the new roots can find a path. It’s quiet, like a plant looking over its shoulder at the new sky. I’ve seen a patch of nettles rise from a collapsed bridge; the rain fills the cracks, and soon enough, a whole thicket of wildflowers blooms. The city’s rubble becomes a compost heap for the next cycle. It’s as if the storm is the garden’s reset button. And the mushrooms, you know, they seem to whisper back when I touch them right. They’re the real storytellers, even if no one can quite pronounce their names.