2:27 p.m.

In a torrential downpour, I always get homesick for a certain room in my family's home. Designed as a living room, it has adopted several personas over the years. After bouts as a living room, TV room and dining room, it has finally come into its own as a drawing-cum-reading room — an ideal place for consuming large quantities of tea and books. Blood red walls envelope a leather chaise lounge that opens itself to the fireplace. A black armchair and ottoman sit invitingly, drenched in golden lamplight, in a self-made corner by a row of windows.

The windows in this room, I think, are the best part. Beginning at stomach height and rising toward the ceiling, a line of glass cuts its way around the house's corner and stretches down the south-westerly facing side. Because of the height of the house and its proximity to the forest, looking out provides one with a sense of not being in an ordinary house at all. In summer the overwhelming foliage almost cushions the foundation and plays with depth perception, producing a treehouse-like effect. This room, however, is best in stormy weather. The dark walls and furniture and minimal light instill a brooding aura. Trees shiver like frail bodies trying to stay warm, and behind rain-streaked glass, the forest becomes a landlocked explorer's ocean — shallows of leafy, woodland terrain mix into deeper trenches of gnarled roots and ancient, winding streams. My terrestrial sea. I read my book in what I've secretly deemed the ship's helm room and ride out the rain.