84.3%

High noon at the Food Centre. Ceiling fans churning the sticky air. She hangs up. Tears feel redundant here—this place has already soaked enough for her.

Beside her, the calamansi lime juice. Condensation fogs the glass, a thin mist where the humidity landed. Citrus bursts in her mouth, like throwing open blinds after a long, stuffy day. Wind from the Singapore River sneaks in, crushing the green of Rain Trees, lifting the salt of the ferries, slipping through her damp collar, a long-lost peace.

Rain falls hard, then stops. The air holds 84.3% water—like Singapore holding her tears. You eventually know: no need to wait for the sun. There is always light in the rain.