The city of Drizzlewick had a reputation problem.

Not because of crime. Not because of taxes. Not even because the mayor insisted on wearing swim goggles at all public events.

It was the rain.

In Drizzlewick, it only rained when something emotional happened. Not dramatic weather systems or seasonal patterns—just feelings. Weddings brought gentle spring showers. Breakups triggered torrential downpours. Public arguments? Flash floods.

The city had adapted, of course. Sidewalks were grooved for drainage. Umbrellas were issued with birth certificates. Emotional neutrality was considered a civic virtue, right up there with recycling.

Gary, unfortunately, was not a naturally neutral man.

He stood outside a bakery, staring at a display of éclairs like they had personally wronged him.

“Just buy one,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not an emotional event. It’s pastry.”

The bell chimed as he stepped inside. Warm air, sugar, and the faint sound of a couple arguing in hushed tones near the croissants.

Gary froze.

“—I just think you don’t listen—”

A single drop hit the window.

Gary spun toward the counter. “One éclair, quickly, please. To-go. Extremely to-go.”

The cashier blinked. “Sir, we’re not—”

Thunder cracked.

Outside, rain began slamming into the street like someone had tipped over a very large, very emotional bucket.

Gary clutched his coat. “Nope. Not staying. Not getting involved. Not my feelings, not my rain.”

He bolted out into the storm, immediately regretting every life decision that had led him to this moment, including the éclair, which he dropped face-down in a puddle.

“Of course,” he sighed, staring at the soggy pastry. “Of course that happened.”

The rain intensified, as if agreeing.

Gary squinted up at the sky. “That wasn’t even my emotion! That was theirs!”

A woman hurried past him, clutching a bouquet and sobbing.

Gary stepped aside quickly. “Nope. Not making eye contact. Not getting dragged into that narrative.”

He ducked under an awning, dripping.

A man next to him glanced over. “First time?”

Gary shook his head. “No, I’ve lived here my whole life. I just try not to… participate.”

The man nodded solemnly. “Good policy. I once congratulated a stranger too enthusiastically. Light drizzle turned into a week-long monsoon.”

Gary grimaced. “See, that’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”

The rain began to ease, tapering off into a polite mist. Somewhere nearby, the argument must have resolved or escalated beyond meteorological interest.

Gary exhaled. “Okay. Reset. Neutral. We are neutral.”

He stepped back onto the street, carefully navigating puddles and emotional landmines.

His phone buzzed.

He pulled it out, already wary.

Mom: Call me when you get a chance.

Gary stared at the message like it might explode.

“No,” he whispered. “No, that’s how it starts.”

He typed back: In a meeting. Talk later.

A lie, yes. But a dry one.

He pocketed the phone and continued walking, shoulders squared, face arranged into what he hoped was an expression of mild indifference.

At the corner, he nearly collided with a street performer playing a violin.

The music was… beautiful.

Gary felt something stir in his chest. Not a lot. Just a little.

The first raindrop hit his hand.

He snapped upright. “Nope.”

He turned sharply and walked the other way.

Behind him, the violin swelled, and the sky responded with a soft, shimmering rain that followed him like a disappointed ghost.

“I am not doing this today,” Gary muttered, quickening his pace.

He ducked into a hardware store.

Inside, it was quiet. Safe. Emotionally barren.

Gary relaxed.

“Welcome in!” the clerk called cheerfully.

Gary flinched. “Thank you. Please don’t be too enthusiastic.”

The clerk paused. “I’ll… keep it moderate.”

Gary wandered the aisles, examining bolts with the intensity of a man who deeply, profoundly did not care about bolts.

This was good. This was safe. No feelings about bolts.

His phone buzzed again.

Mom: It’s important.

Gary closed his eyes.

“No,” he said softly. “We are not doing important today.”

But his thumb hovered over the call button.

He sighed.

“Fine. But we’re staying neutral.”

He stepped into the plumbing aisle, surrounded by pipes and quiet, and hit call.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Gary,” she said, her voice warm and relieved. “I just wanted to tell you—your father finally fixed the sink.”

Gary blinked. “Oh.”

“I know you were worried about it leaking.”

“I… was mildly concerned,” Gary admitted.

“Well, it’s all taken care of. No more problems.”

Gary leaned against a shelf. “That’s… good.”

There was a pause.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently.

Gary hesitated.

Outside, the sky darkened.

He looked up through the narrow window near the ceiling.

“No,” he said, very carefully. “But I’m… managing.”

The first drop hit the glass.

“Gary,” his mother said, “you don’t always have to manage everything alone.”

The rain began again—soft at first, then steadier, like the city itself was leaning in.

Gary sighed, sliding down to sit on the floor between the pipes.

“I know,” he said. “I just… like staying dry.”

His mother chuckled softly. “You live in Drizzlewick, sweetheart.”

Gary glanced at the rain, then back at the rows of perfectly unemotional plumbing.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”