Midwinter in Genepohl

[Nornen]

Midwinter in Irkania didn’t come with snow.
It came with rain.
The slow, heavy kind that arrived in sheets, drumming on roofs and leaves until the whole city sounded like it was breathing. Outside Flouf’s café, the street shimmered under the lamps, puddles glowing amber and green, steam rising where warm air met wet stone.
Inside, the air was cooler than usual. Not cold — just enough to make you notice the difference.
The windows were open, because closing them would’ve been pointless. Rain mist crept in anyway, soft and warm, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and flowering plants from somewhere down the block. Ceiling fans turned lazily, pushing the air around rather than chasing it.
Rin sat with her elbows on the table, bare feet tucked under the chair, watching the rain as if it were a language she almost understood. Her drink was something citrusy and hot at the same time, steam fogging her glasses whenever she leaned too close.
Ilshal occupied the space between table and counter, neither fully seated nor standing. They listened, as usual. The rain made that easier — it filled the pauses so nobody felt the need to rush.
Flouf moved through the café with practiced ease. This place knew her now. Cups, trays, the coffee machine — all of it responded like it had learned her rhythm. She set down a plate of something sweet and fried, grinned when someone protested they were “absolutely full,” and ignored it completely.
Midwinter didn’t darken Irkania.
It softened it.
Voices stayed low, not out of caution, but comfort. Someone complained about the humidity. Someone else countered that it was “the good humidity.” Nobody won that argument, but it didn’t matter.
When the rain intensified, a gust pushed water across the floor near the entrance. Everyone instinctively pulled their chairs back — except Flouf, who just grabbed a towel and dealt with it, laughing like this was all part of the deal.
“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. “It always passes.”
And it did. Not all at once. Just gradually, the rain thinning to a steady hush, the air cooling another degree, the night settling into something calmer.
By the time the fans were the loudest sound again, the café felt like a pocket carved out of the season itself. Midwinter, tropical and gentle, wrapped around warm cups, familiar voices, and the quiet certainty that this — right here — was enough.
Flouf’s café stayed lit long after the street outside went quiet.