By the time the storm moved on, the town felt strangely altered, as if it had survived a siege. Lawns were buried under jagged mounds of ice, cars sat dented and glassless, and the steady drip of water inside damaged homes replaced the earlier roar. Neighbors stepped outside slowly, trading shell-shocked glances and stories of where they were when the first hailstones hit.
Emergency crews moved through the streets, checking on residents and taping off dangerous areas beneath splintered trees and broken power lines. Parents swept glass from children’s bedrooms, grateful the only casualties were property and nerves. Under a bruised, clearing sky, people filmed the melting hailstones in their hands, still stunned by their size. No one knew how long repairs would take, but they knew this storm would be talked about for years—etched into memory as the night the sky turned against them.
