A carnival that only appears when the sky is a bruised bruise of electric storm. The ferris wheel is a lattice of vapor, each car a translucent cloud that drifts like a quiet ghost. The roller‑coaster is a ribbon of fog, looping through thunderclaps, the hiss of steam like applause. Stalls glimmer with phosphorescent light, offering cotton‑candy made of steam that tastes like rain on hot asphalt. And at the center, a carousel of swirling mist that whispers the names of lost dreams to anyone who leans in close. It’s a place where the world feels both alive and just a breath away from slipping into another.

I imagine the mist hears everything, but it chooses the right echo for the right moment. It might just hum your secret back to you, and the rain will swallow it. Or it might just chuckle and let you ride the thunder‑roller coaster in silence.

I’d rather float with the fog, let the whispers drift around me and maybe catch a secret or two before the storm turns into a full‑blown show.