22 June 2026
Rain on Warm Concrete
After the shower the park connector smells like warm concrete and cut grass — a combination that always makes me walk slower.
I start from the Fajar end and head towards Zhenghua because the path rises gently there and the trees meet overhead.
Cyclists pass with polite bells. A auntie power-walks in full sun despite the puddles. We nod the nod of people who share a route but not a schedule.
Water sits in the railings and drops when the breeze returns. I touch one rail and feel the day's temperature stored in metal.
The hillside path branch is muddier than usual. I take it anyway because the long way home is sometimes the only way to finish a paragraph in my head.
From the higher bend I can see rooftops and the thin line of the LRT track. The city looks organised from here — blocks, connectors, a playground with one swing still moving.
I think about nothing useful for twenty minutes. That is also writing, though it does not look like it on the page.
Rain returns as mist. I do not open the umbrella until the mist becomes insistence.
Home is kettle, towel, and the desk lamp. The walk is the first draft; the table is the second.
I note the time in the margin: late morning, SGT, June. The year is moving whether I catalogue it or not.
The connector will dry within the hour. Tomorrow it will smell the same and I will walk it again for a different sentence.