The air is wet. The ground is wet. The stones of the castle are wet and the bench I want to sit on is also wet.
The view from the wall is hazy because of the moisture in the air. Below hammers and saws thump and buzz through the mist fixing things. But the river is still and the boats hibernate in dry dock, under the faded trees.
A few people stroll like philosophers, through the castle grounds. Thinking about their next step.
A train rattles over the bridge slowing down, changing tracks.
The world is a work in progress.