A quiet sensitivity lies in my bones, often sinking me into aimless reverie.Rainy days are my feast. As the world turns into a damp, gray-green haze, I retreat to my castle. The air carries the uniquely crisp, salty-sweet scent of rain. I let the playlist, played countless times before, play softly in the background.The wooden ball in my hand rises and falls. The crisp clink of the wooden ball against the cup's groove seems to converse with the patter of rain outside the window. Within this rhythmic arc, my mind gradually gathers focus and then slowly disperses—a quiet, perfect buffer zone