The Whispering Winds of San Francisco
The morning in San Francisco arrived with a quiet determination, the kind that hinted at the city’s resilience. The sky was a patchwork of grays and whites, with clouds that seemed to stretch endlessly, their edges blurred by the faintest hint of sunlight struggling to break through. The air was cool, carrying with it the salty tang of the Pacific Ocean, a constant reminder of the city’s proximity to the water. The temperature hovered around 13 degrees Celsius, a crispness that nipped at exposed skin and sent locals reaching for their favorite hoodies and scarves. The forecast had promised a day of overcast skies with a chance of fog, and by mid-morning, the iconic Golden Gate Bridge was already partially shrouded in a veil of mist, its towering orange pillars fading into the haze. San Francisco, a city known for its microclimates and unpredictable weather, seemed to embrace the morning’s moodiness with its usual charm. The fog, affectionately known as “Karl” by locals, rolled in...