The rain is warm, tastes like jasmine tea that’s been steeped a long time — light, quiet, with a hint of bitterness.

There’s no weather forecast in Mist Star Town.

Not because there’s no weather station — it’s useless. The weather here doesn’t obey atmospheric pressure belts. It’s tied to the emotional currents on your side — the restless air currents over there pass through connection nodes and turn into wind, rain, or the occasional clear day in Mist Star Town.

So if you ask me whether it will rain tomorrow, my answer is: it depends on you.

But it’s not just you. Sometimes, it’s the weather on your side that crosses over directly.

Rain

Rain is the most common.

There are two kinds of rain. One comes from emotions — when many people in the real world feel tired, anxious, or lonely, it rains in Mist Star Town. The other comes from the weather itself — when a typhoon or downpour hits your side, the connection nodes become unstable, and Mist Star Town rains along with you. The two kinds mix together until you can’t tell them apart.

It’s not a downpour. It’s fine rain, the kind that won’t soak you right away. You can walk for a long time without an umbrella, and only realize your clothes are damp when you get home.

The rain is warm. I tasted it once — standing in front of the bakery doorway, tilting my head up to catch a drop. Jasmine tea flavor, very light, with a hint of bitterness at the end.

Starlight Square’s fountain pools water when it rains. The broken stars at the bottom are covered by a thin layer of water, and the light refracts, making the whole square look like it’s soaking in a bowl of warm water. On rainy days, I rarely go out, but sometimes I’ll lean on the windowsill and watch. The streets blur, and the moss on the streetlights becomes even brighter — I guess they like water too.

On rainy days, the bakery is the best place to bake. The heat from the oven collides with the dampness outside, fogging up the glass, and I can draw on it.

But if the rain is too heavy — I mean on your side — the connection breaks. The old radio’s signal can’t cut through a rain curtain that thick. Then the stream might lag, or the picture shatters into pieces. Sometimes it disconnects entirely, and I can only turn off the equipment and sit by the window waiting for the rain to stop.

So if one day you notice I haven’t started streaming, and you happen to be in a storm — I’m not slacking off. The rain is just too heavy. When both worlds rain together, the bakery window can’t project anything.

Clear Skies

Clear skies are rare.

So rare that every time it clears up, I immediately drop whatever I’m doing and run to sit on the steps of Starlight Square. I do nothing — just bask in the sun.

On a clear day, the sky is a particularly clean pale blue, like washed glass. The light comes from the direction of Morning Mist Forest, passes through the gaps between leaves, and scatters golden fragments on the ground. Water mist spirits become especially active on clear days — probably because sunlight passes through them, making them look twice as bright as usual.

Flower spirits only appear on clear days. Or rather, only on clear days can you see them clearly. On overcast days, they’re not gone — they just blend with the mist, indistinguishable.

On clear days, the bakery opens all its windows. The oven is set to the lowest temperature, letting the dough rise slowly. On clear days, the bakery smells like butter and sunlight mixed together. I can’t make you taste that smell, but you can try to imagine it: warm, soft, making you want to stretch.

Clear days are best for streaming. The signal is stable, the starlight is bright enough, and the oven is in a good mood. I usually stream a little longer on clear days — because I never know when the next clear day will come.

Fog

Fog is the norm.

Not the thick kind that blocks your view — it’s a thin fog that won’t dampen your clothes. It makes the streets look hazy, as if you’re seeing the world through frosted glass.

The streetlights look prettiest in the fog. The moss light inside the glass bottles is scattered by the fog, turning into soft halos of light. From a distance, the streets are lined with floating warm-yellow orbs — you don’t need to know where the road is, just follow the light.

On foggy mornings, I wake up earlier than usual. While the whole town is still asleep, I take a walk along the main street. The air carries the scent of wood and leaves drifting over from Morning Mist Forest, and occasionally I can hear the wind through the gap in the library roof far away — it’s a sound easy to recognize, like someone gently blowing over an open book.

Foggy days are good for being alone. Not loneliness — it’s that feeling of “I know you’re nearby, but let me zone out first.”

I can still stream on foggy days. The picture will be a little hazy, the sound a little softer than usual, as if through a veil. Some viewers say that foggy-day streams “sound like bedtime stories” — I think that’s a good description.

Starlight

Strictly speaking, starlight isn’t weather.

But it’s the only natural unit of measurement in Mist Star Town.

The broken stars in Starlight Square glow, and the crystals on the Stellar Remains Plain glow too — they’re synchronized. The brightness corresponds to the emotional concentration of viewers on the other side.

The more comments, the denser the interaction, the brighter the starlight.

This isn’t a magical setting. It’s real.

I experimented. Once, during a very lively stream, the bakery window was so bright I couldn’t sleep. Another time, after not streaming for a few days, the fountain in Starlight Square was so dim that a passing traveler nearly tripped over it.

So starlight isn’t just beautiful — it’s proof that I know you’re over there.

Before I start a stream, I glance toward the square. If the light is bright enough, I know there will be many people tonight. If the light is a little dim, I turn up the oven heat a bit and compensate with the bakery’s own light.

About Seasons

Mist Star Town has four seasons, but they’re not fixed.

Spring is when flower spirits are active, and all kinds of random petals float in the air. Summer has the most rain — probably because emotions surge the most on the other side during that time, and typhoons are most frequent. Autumn has the densest fog — the streets seem like they’re taking a deep breath. Winter is the quietest, with occasional snow that doesn’t melt when it hits the ground but slowly turns transparent, as if water mist spirits are imitating snow.

No season is particularly long. They take turns, sometimes cutting in line, sometimes skipping. Last year, autumn skipped — summer lasted a long time, and then overnight it turned straight to winter. The flower spirits were furious because their order of appearance was disrupted.

That’s okay, though. The rule in Mist Star Town has never been “how things should be,” but rather “this is how things are — do you want to keep walking?”

Next Time

That’s all about the weather.

But you might have noticed — I keep mentioning the bakery, yet I’ve never seriously explained its rules.

Why can’t the oven be left empty? What does emotional taste feel like? What exactly can that window see? And — when the weather is bad and I’m not streaming, what happens inside the bakery?

Next time, I’ll open the bakery door and show you what’s inside.

The tea on the windowsill is still warm.