“This,” Aisha said, “is the secret of the wet season. The island exhales. The trees grow five shades greener. And the tourists? They’re all inside, waiting for February.”
So here I am , Sam thought, watching a curtain of rain sweep across the Gardens by the Bay like a moving wall.
She introduced herself as Aisha. Retired. She’d lived in Singapore her whole life. When she heard he’d come in December by accident, she didn’t laugh. She just nodded slowly.
Mr. Tan laughed. “This is December. The monsoon. You chose the wet season.”
The next morning, she proved it. She met him in the lobby at 7 a.m., before the daily thunderstorm, and led him to a park she called the Green Corridor—an old railway line turned into a walking path. The rain had just stopped. The air was rinsed clean, and the ground steamed gently. Frogs called from unseen drains. Everything was the color of new money: emerald, jade, lime.
Sam’s heart sank. He’d booked the trip six months ago, a desperate escape from a Chicago winter and a worse breakup. He’d Googled “Singapore best time to travel” and promptly ignored the results, seduced by a cheap flight. February, the articles had said. Or April. Dry. Breezy. Perfect.