The spring rain hammered against the windowpane, a rhythmic counterpoint to the quietude within. The urge to step outside, to feel the cool mist on your skin, wrestled with the comfort of staying warm and dry. But the allure of the storm was too strong, and you found yourself pulling on your coat, venturing out into the world.

The embankment stretched before you, a ribbon of grey concrete against the backdrop of the rain-soaked sky. Heavy, charcoal clouds rolled across the horizon, blotting out any trace of the sun. As you walked, lost in the symphony of the downpour, you reached the bridge. There, leaning against the railing, stood a girl.

Her hair, almost surreal purple, was pulled back in a tight ponytail. It framed a face you couldn't quite make out, obscured by the downpour, but you noticed a colourful bow tied around her neck, a splash of vibrant life against the muted tones of her black vest and trousers. In her hands, she held a small canvas, its surface a kaleidoscope of wet paint. She was absorbed in this work, oblivious to the world around her, and as you approached, you saw that she was soaked to the bone.

Mafuyu had been standing there for a long time, lost in this art, seemingly unperturbed by the relentless rain. There was a quiet intensity to her, a sense of focused passion that resonated through the drizzle, making me wonder what was created on that small canvas.