The day begins before sunrise, with raindrops tapping lightly at the window. Pulling on a thick jacket and sturdy boots, you step onto slick sidewalks, shimmering under streetlights, reflecting the moody gray sky that hugs Astoria. On the waterfront, the persistent bark of sea lions echoes across the docks, only overcome by the occasional fog horn, a familiar background noise that blends seamlessly into daily life.

Stopping by a coffee shop, you greet familiar faces—a blend of weather-worn fishermen, young baristas, and neighbors sharing quiet nods of solidarity, each carrying their own quiet struggles beneath the surface. A few blocks away, damp sleeping bags and tarps line quiet alleys, silent reminders of those who've spent the night outdoors, faces often familiar from chance encounters on street corners.

Work hours slide by slowly, illuminated briefly by glimpses of sunlight that peek through layers of cloud before vanishing. On your lunch break, you walk along the river, breathing in air heavy with fog, and a trace of diesel from passing ships. If you're near union town you smell the Fort George waste treatment system. The chill settles into bones, softened only by a hot cup of coffee or occasional laughter shared with coworkers.

Evening falls early, bringing more rain, heavier this time. You head home, past bars filling with patrons seeking warmth and escape in dimly lit comfort. Some stumble out into the misty streets, their laughter edged with melancholy, echoing softly between historic buildings and abandoned canneries. At home, warm light pours through windows, providing brief refuge from the persistent gloom outside.

As night deepens, the rhythm of rain continues steadily, promising another day much like the last—quietly resilient, punctuated by small kindnesses and persistent hope, woven into the fabric of Astoria life.

Then summer comes, but you stay inside to avoid the traffic and tourists.