The sky didn’t just break over Greybridge; it bled. Outside, the rain fell in vicious, silver rods, a relentless downpour fuelled by the leaden weight in Sinead’s chest. The clouds weren't just vapor; they were her own suffocating thoughts, dark and bloated, looming over the valley like ancient, judging gods. Every time her heart stuttered with a fresh wave of dread; a low, guttural growl of thunder rattled the windowpanes.

She was sixteen, and she was the storm.

Sitting in the window, she watched the milkman dash through the deluge. His yellow coat was a scream of defiance against the grey world she had created. To Sinead, that brightness felt like a physical assault. She looked down at her hands, her teeth gnawing at her cuticles until they were raw and red. With every jagged bite, the wind outside lashed harder, a rhythmic whip against the brickwork. She was spiralling, and the weather was spiralling with her.

The town was a mirror. If she felt hollow, the streets looked skeletal. If she felt hunted, the fog rolled in to hide the predators.

"Are you up, pet? Come on, it might be better today," her mother’s voice called out. It was a gentle, hopeful melody, but it couldn't pierce the atmospheric pressure Sinead was radiating.

Better? Sinead thought, a bitter coldness settling in her marrow. How can it be better when the air itself is made of my hate?

She stood in her room, shivering. The school uniform lay on the bed, a polyester shroud. To Sinead, it wasn't just clothes; it was a cage for a monster. She pulled on the trousers, feeling the fabric chafe against her skin, and then reached for the tie.

Standing before the window, she looped the fabric around her neck. She stared at her reflection—pale, haunting, the source of the gale. She pulled the knot. Tight. Outside, the wind abruptly died. The world fell into a terrifying, pressurized silence as Sinead cut off her own breath. She pulled it tighter, her face flushing, her vision blurring at the edges. She imagined the tie as a vine, reclaiming her, pulling her into the earth where there were no classrooms and no cruel whispers. She wondered, with a dark, melodic curiosity, if she stopped breathing entirely, would the atmosphere of the entire world simply collapse? Would the sky fall with her?

Her hands trembled. The thought of the hook in the ceiling, the finality of the knot—it felt like the only way to make the sun come out for everyone else.

"Sinead! You’ll be late!"

Her hands flew to the knot, loosening it with a panicked gasp. Outside, the thunder gave a violent, ear-splitting crack, mirroring her sudden jolt of adrenaline. The rain returned with renewed fury, lashing the glass as if trying to break in and drown her.

She descended the stairs, a walking low-pressure system. Her father was a ghost, a man who had fled before the storms began, leaving her mother to raise a girl who carried the hurricane in her pockets.

Sinead sat by the window, her usual sanctuary. For a moment, her mother leaned over and began to brush her hair. The touch was electric—a grounding wire for Sinead’s chaotic energy. Under the rhythmic stroke of the brush, Sinead’s shoulders dropped. Her pulse slowed.

In response, the clouds outside began to thin. A pale, tentative finger of gold light poked through the gloom, illuminating the wet pavement. For three beautiful minutes, Sinead forgot to be afraid. The rain became a drizzle; the wind became a sigh.

Then, the memory of the school gates slammed into her mind like a physical blow. The bullies, the isolation, the "straitjacket."

Instantly, the sun was murdered. The gold light was snuffed out by a wall of black cloud that seemed to boil out of nowhere. The rain returned in buckets, a torrential wall of water that blurred the world into a smear of grey. Sinead picked up her bag, her face a mask of cold despair.

It was going to be a very long, very wet walk.