57 Weather

 As dawn broke over Porto on February 25, 2025, the city awoke to a typical winter morning. The sky, a muted gray, hinted at the day's weather—a blend of clouds and intermittent rain. The temperature hovered around 10°C (50°F), a reminder that winter still held sway over the city. By mid-morning, the streets of Porto were alive with the usual hustle and bustle. Locals and tourists alike navigated the cobblestone streets, umbrellas in hand, as light rain began to fall. The rhythmic patter of raindrops against the pavement created a soothing symphony, blending with the distant hum of trams and the occasional call of street vendors. In the historic Ribeira district, the colorful facades of buildings stood resilient against the elements. The Douro River, usually a shimmering expanse, appeared subdued under the overcast sky. The iconic Dom Luís I Bridge loomed above, its arches casting reflections on the water below. Despite the rain, the district exuded a timeless charm, with cafes spi...

 The old lighthouse, a weatherbeaten sentinel, stood defiantly against the relentless sea. Its sturdy frame, weatherproof against the fiercest storms, had witnessed countless cycles of calm and chaos. Inside, Silas, the lighthouse keeper, consulted his antique weatherglass , its mercury level fluctuating nervously as a powerful weatherfront approached. He was weatherwise , having spent his entire life observing the nuances of the sea and sky. Tonight, the air was thick with anticipation, the silence broken only by the rhythmic crashing of waves against the rocks. Silas knew the signs; the sudden drop in temperature, the eerie stillness, the way the gulls flew inland with frantic urgency. A storm was brewing, a tempest that would test the limits of his lonely tower. He adjusted the large, rotating lamp, ensuring its beam would cut through the impending darkness. The sea, usually a deep, inviting blue, had turned an ominous grey, its surface rippled with angry whitecaps. He felt a...