First hard rain since I moved back, and the streets filled quick. Shoreacres drains like a sieve with holes too small. You watch water rise in the gutter and wonder if you’ve got enough sandbags.
This place always carried risk. Hurricanes don’t ask for permission. They shove the bay water in, rip shingles loose, remind everyone that plywood sheets and duct tape are only temporary faith. Folks here accept it. They talk about storms like distant cousins — bad-tempered, but expected.
Funny thing is, the people here carry themselves the same way. Quiet, but with an undertow. Nobody tells you their whole story. They let it leak in fragments, like runoff. You find out who they voted for, what church they lean on, which son-in-law drinks too much, all in pieces.
Maybe that’s why I came back. In a world of noise and slogans, a town that holds its secrets tight feels almost honest.