Weather Day

The rain was scheduled for 8 a.m, which meant the kettle went on at 7:50. The display on the kitchen wall counted down with soft, chiming numerals. Raucous laughter and excited conversation came from the street below. It was Weather Day.

Nikita rested her forearms on the windowsill and watched a woman tug the hood of her raincoat tighter despite the heat. Someone below snapped an umbrella open and closed again, testing it, the fabric popping sharply in the dry air.

This year, District 42 voted for rain—a narrow win, barely stolen from the usual snow-crazed majority. To Nikita, anything was better than the persistent dry heat of the district.

From her window, she watched people gathering in the narrow streets, brightly colored raincoats on and umbrellas draped from their arms. The scene seemed premature in contrast to the sun-baked concrete.

Heat shimmered above the pavement, blurring the outlines of shoes and ankles.

A child dragged the metal tip of an umbrella along the ground, tracing an uneven line that scarred the pavement.

The kettle clicked off. Nikita unwrapped the aromatic tea bag from its pouch carefully. She’d worked herself thin for this, but it felt justified. As she poured the water, minty steam rose and she breathed it in.

She glanced back at the display. Five minutes.

She’d only experienced a rain-day once, years ago, when she was a kid, before her parents had passed. She vividly remembered the smell of ozone, the sound of laughter and the gentle, habitual kisses her mother used to give her. The memory faded just as quickly as it came as the countdown display chimed.

The familiar, calm voice of the Announcer echoed through the entire district.

“Weather Day initiated. District parameters confirmed. Commencing allocated weather pattern.”

Cheers rose from the streets as everyone tilted their heads skywards, waiting for the artificial clouds to slide into place.

Nikita opened her window, ready for the scent of ozone to blow through.

Nothing changed.

The sky remained pale and empty. The noise softened.

Conversations thinned. Umbrellas lowered first. Some were folded away. Others were left half open, forgotten. Someone laughed too loudly, the sound brittle, then stopped when no one joined in.

A minute passed.

The Announcer spoke again. “Weather delay detected. Delay duration within acceptable tolerance. No action required.”

A phone chimed somewhere below and was quickly silenced.

Below her window, a man laughed softly and tipped his head to the sky, squinting as he gripped his umbrella.

“Any moment now,” he said, glancing at the others around him.

Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the umbrella handle squeaking faintly in his hand.

The sun pressed down on the crowd, unchanged.

No one moved yet.

A woman started to step away, hesitated, then returned to her place in the slight shade of her neighbors umbrella.

The Announcer’s voice returned, smooth and even. “Forecast re-calibration in progress. Current conditions remain within acceptable tolerance.”

“You see,” a woman said, repeating the phrase carefully. “Within acceptable tolerance.”

Her husband grunted and wiped his brow as he lowered his umbrella slightly, the yellow fabric sagging.

The words hung in the air with the continued heat.

Some people folded their umbrellas completely.

A dirty-faced man in blue overalls, leaning against the wall, pulled out his pocket watch. He glanced at it and then at the sky, as if comparing the two.

“I’ve got to get back,” he said, already stepping away.

Others followed without comment, drifting toward shaded doorways and transit stations. The crowd beneath Nikita’s window thinned.

Only a handful remained.

Another minute passed. It was eerily quiet.

The Announcer spoke up again, breaking the silence. “Weather pattern initiation underway. Deployment sequence in progress.”

The few who remained, jostled closer together. Conversation picked up again, cautious and uneven. Some cheered. Others stared intently at the sky.

Nikita leaned forward, her fingers pressing into the sill.

A dense ceiling of dark, purple cloud appeared overhead, cutting the light abruptly and offering brief relief from the heat.

Lightning flickered without rhythm.

Flashes arrived without thunder.

The clouds shifted in color, purple to blue to white, then repeated the sequence, as if correcting themselves.

Rain followed all at once. Heavy drops thudded against tin roofs, knocking aside flimsy umbrellas that had been raised too late.

Just as suddenly, the deluge thinned into a fast, cutting rain that stung exposed skin.

People hesitated. Then they moved, scattering toward shelter as the weather continued, precise and indifferent. Water splashed back up from the pavement, spotting shoes and hems before people reached cover.

“Weather pattern successfully deployed. District allocation fulfilled.”

The downpour stopped. At once.

The cloud cover thinned rapidly, breaking into pale wisps as the light returned, unchanged.

Nikita frowned at the display.

Weather Day was scheduled for six hours. Fifteen minutes had passed.

She stepped back from the window, the mug still in her hand, its contents cold now. She inhaled. The familiar scent of ozone lingered, close enough to remember, but not enough to quite place it.

The street remained quiet.

Water ran briefly along the gutters, then disappeared into the drains, leaving the pavement darkened in uneven patches. Steam lifted from the concrete as the heat settled back into place. A loose umbrella rolled once in the breeze, then stopped against the curb.

The streets stayed empty, aside from the blue-uniformed laborers already at work cleaning up, as if the wrongness of the day was expected.

Umbrellas and raincoats lay abandoned, as if their owners had been washed away.

The kitchen display chimed and reset. The Weather Day timer vanished, replaced with a status message:

“Weather Day ration fulfilled. Next vote: 352 days.”

Nikita closed the window and set her mug in the sink.

She stood for a moment, listening.

Then she turned back to the street.

Her reflection hovered faintly in the glass, broken by the bright sky beyond.

The sky was clear now, an uninterrupted blue.

Nikita watched it in silence, waiting, not for rain, but for confirmation that it would behave as expected.