That was the thing about Australian summers. They didn’t just end. They collapsed into thunderstorms—cracks of lightning that split the air, rain that fell in vertical sheets, and then, overnight, a cool change that made you remember you had bones.

She looked out at the greening hills, the sky streaked orange and pink, a lone cockatoo screeching from a dead branch. “Spring is the lie you tell yourself that this time you’ll be ready.”

Spring arrived like a dare. September winds that whipped through the eaves, followed by days that swung from twenty-eight degrees to hailstorms in an hour. Clara stood in her father’s garden, watching the wattles and bottlebrushes explode into colour, and thought: This is a country that doesn’t do things by halves . The temperature wasn’t just a number—it was a presence. It dictated what you wore, what you ate, when you slept. You couldn’t ignore it. You had to move with it.

They drove through the Blue Mountains, where the mist clung to the valleys like a secret. She’d forgotten how winter came here—not with snow, but with frosty mornings that turned the grass white and afternoons so clear you could see the curve of the earth. Winter in this part of Australia was a quiet season. The tourist crowds vanished. The wattle began to bloom, absurdly yellow against the grey sky. “Cold enough to remind you you’re alive,” her father said, “but not so cold you forget why.”

She wrapped her hands around it. “I think I forgot how much the seasons here feel like characters ,” she said. “In London, winter was just something you endured. Here, it’s something you argue with. Summer’s the loud relative who stays too long. Autumn’s the apology.”