The hot wind announced the rain―at least that's what people used to say back in his hometown. When he was little, he celebrated those days when his mother accepted, in defeat, the disorder in her hair against her usual hairdo. Hot winds are good to spend time at the balcony and enjoy the silence of the house while the water is still contained inside the scattered clouds.

Now, he could see Marina and the children at the vegetable garden, the TV was on mute, and the kitchen looked like it hadn't been used for quite some time. He could choose a book from his old collection, dust it off and remain there, growing roots, pretending he was reading, feigning the life he always wished to have, leaving his watch forgotten at the bottom of a drawer. However, he had only come to drop off the family, so they could enjoy the estate before it was for sale. Would they really sell it? After all, the apartment and the office were a few minutes’ drive from there. It wouldn't be a bad idea to keep the place as a retreat for moments of leisure.
He imagined an idle afternoon in the middle of a workweek, spent at the balcony enjoying the warm kisses from the breeze or walking to the park nearby. Having a country house, for those moments when the apartment or the office were unbearable, was a bucolic dream that resembled those hot winds.