Après la Pluie, after the rain. That exact moment when the storm has passed and the world hasn't yet decided what to become next. The guitar enters alone, fingerpicked, close enough to hear the fingers on the strings, and when the strings arrive halfway through it feels less like an arrangement and more like the sky clearing. Aubry writes music the way some people write letters they never send, intimate, unhurried, meant for one person who may not exist. I listen to this when I need the world to be briefly, gently, enough.