Summertime Sadness（1 / 7）

The summer of Year II of the Republic would linger in the memories of Parisians for a very long time.

Since the beginning of July, not a single drop of rain had fallen. The weather was dauntingly scorching and dry, as if the air enveloping the whole city was ablaze, casting a suffocating crimson hue in the eyes of poets.

Grass withered, birdsong grew faint, and the world sank deeper into a sombre haze. Whether it was the gavel on the club''s podium or the guillotine on the Place of the Revolution, they had lost their vigour, dull and listless, allowing time to pass by meaninglessly.

Yet in the corners, under the shade of trees, there were constant whispers and restlessness, a brewing storm in the shadows. No words were spoken, but everybody knew - an unprecedented downpour was about to descend from the heavens, sweeping across feverish Paris, destroying all that had been built.

On the eighth day of Thermidor, murmurs emerged from the distance as dusk approached. Horses foamed at the mouth, dense dark clouds descended, and the leaden sky weighed heavily upon every heart, transforming the entire city into a colossal, metallic coffin. The wild wind whipped up dust, the withered leaves rustled and crackled, and all things silently awaited in restless anticipation.

It was not until deep into the night that the first lightning bolt finally cleaved the firmament, and a torrential rain poured down, resounding upon the parched earth.

Edith failed to fall asleep tonight. She sat on the edge of her bed, cradling her knees, her head leaning against the wall, motionless. The blood in the girl''s veins, which had always flowed briskly and evenly, now surged and churned like the tempest outside.

A gentle tap seemed to echo on the window glass, blending with the rhythmic patter of raindrops, almost indistinguishable. In an instant, she sat up straight, holding her breath, listening intently.

"Edith? It''s me," a ho