The low growl of distant thunder rumbles like the earth remembering a dream, settling over the body like a blanket pressed to the skin. Crickets whisper in the wet grass, their voices thin and bright against the heavier dark, stitching calm into the restless edges of sleep. This is the hour when the storm softens into stillness, and the mind follows, slowing until thought becomes breath. Let the resonant pulse pull you under the surface of noise, where peace lives just behind the eyes.