40 Weather

 As the first light of dawn crept over the Mediterranean, the city of Nice stirred from its slumber. The Promenade des Anglais, usually bustling with early risers, lay still under a blanket of clouds. The sea, a muted gray, whispered softly against the pebbled shore, its waves gentle and unhurried. The air carried a crispness, a reminder that winter still held sway over the Côte d'Azur. By mid-morning, the clouds thickened, casting a subdued light over the city. The temperature hovered around 12°C (54°F), a typical February chill. The scent of the sea mingled with the earthy aroma of wet pavement, as a light drizzle began to fall. The streets, usually vibrant with the colors of the Mediterranean, now appeared washed in shades of gray. Parisians and locals alike sought refuge under umbrellas, their footsteps quickening as they navigated the slick sidewalks. Cafés along the Promenade remained open, their terraces sheltered from the rain. Patrons huddled under awnings, sipping espress...

 The weather in Eldermere had always been peculiar. It was a town where the wind carried whispers and the rain seemed to fall with purpose. The locals claimed that the storms were alive, that they remembered, that they sought something—or someone. Samuel Whitmore never believed in such superstitions. As a professor , he had dedicated his life to science, to rationality. But all of that changed the night the storm came for him. It began with a letter. Delivered by no one, left on his desk at the university. The ink was smudged, as if written in haste, and the message was cryptic: "The storm is watching. The key is in the bell tower. Do not trust the echoes." Samuel frowned. There was no signature, no indication of who had sent it. But the words unsettled him. That evening, the storm arrived, sudden and violent. Thunder shook the town, and the streets flooded in minutes. Yet, despite the chaos, Samuel found himself drawn to the old bell tower , standing tall at the heart of E...