Test turntable, rain on the bell, and a soul LP with someone’s name in the runout—retail as stewardship.

No joggers, no photoshoots—just wind through live oaks and a pond holding its breath. Winter grants a small permission to be alone.

Bell-loud cups, too-small umbrellas, and puddles full of neon—Montrose, rinsed and honest.
Slug: montrose-in-the-rain

Metal shutter, warm lights, a saved first espresso, and names spoken like passwords. Morning finds its rhythm in a neighborhood café.

A sideways cold front, limes remembering themselves, and windows finally cracked open—Houston offers a brief coupon for mercy.