This morning, I woke up to the sound of thunderstorms. There is something primal about that sound—the low rumble of distant thunder, the heavy drumming of rain against the windows. It is the kind of weather that makes you want to stay in bed, wrapped in blankets, listening to the world outside.
And so I did. I lay there for a while, listening to the storm, feeling the weight of the gray sky pressing down on the morning. Eventually, I got up and made my way to the kitchen. I popped some bread in the toaster and stood there, half-awake, watching the rain streak across the windows.
That is when it happened.
Suddenly, the air was filled with the unmistakable sound of an emergency alert. It blared from my phone, then from my mom’s phone, then from every device in the house. That piercing, urgent tone that instantly cuts through any sense of calm.
I picked up my phone and read the SMS. A tornado warning had been issued for our region. The storm was intensifying. We were just outside the path of potential danger.
I grabbed my phone and walked to the window. The sky was a swirling mass of gray and green—the kind of color that makes your stomach drop because you know what it means. I took a video, capturing the view, the rain, the wind.
And then I heard it.
Through the video, through the storm, through the chaos of the morning—I heard P’s voice. Clear and unmistakable. He was blaring, almost shouting, over the sound of the rain:
“Tornado warning.”
The storm cleared and our area was not affected.
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