Rain cascades like a veil, sometimes with such regularity that it forms a constant static; other times, fat raindrops drum sonorously on the ground below, heavy and obtuse. So pulses Tsuyu’s slubby weave, its stitches winding down in weighty strands and sometimes in thin, steady drizzles. Its ticking, dying in and out of sight, thrums with the rhythm of the rainy season, hazy and elusive like a forthcoming storm, far off in the distance.