September 2049 

September 2049 – My Thoughts About the Floods in Ostrava

It’s September 2049, and every day I wake up with the same worry in my mind: the floods that might hit Ostrava. I don’t know why this feeling is so strong, but it’s been following me for weeks. Maybe it’s because the weather has been changing so fast. Maybe it’s because the rain this year feels heavier, louder, and almost angry. Or maybe it’s simply because I’ve lived here long enough to know when something isn’t right.

The rivers are the first sign. The Ostravice and the Odra look different now. They used to feel calm to me, almost friendly, like familiar parts of the city I grew up with. But lately they look tense, swollen, running faster than they should. Sometimes when I stand on the bridge and watch the water, it feels like the river is trying to warn me about something coming.

People around me feel the same. My neighbors keep talking about the rain, the forecasts, the dams. Even people who never cared about weather before suddenly know the river levels by heart. I hear conversations everywhere on the tram, in the shop, at school.

“Did you see the water yesterday?”
“It’s higher than last week.”
“If we get one more big storm, we’re in trouble.”

I try not to panic, but their voices stick with me.

I’ve started preparing in small ways. I moved my important things to the top shelves. I packed a small bag with basic items, just in case I needed to leave quickly. It feels strange to do this, almost like I’m preparing for something that isn’t real yet—but at the same time, it feels necessary. As if not preparing would be tempting fate.

Every time it rains, even a little, my chest gets tight. I listen closely to the sound. Light rain doesn’t bother me, but when the drops get heavier, I feel a wave of worry spread through me. I picture the water collecting on the streets, running down into the drains, filling the rivers even more. I imagine how quickly it could all rise if there was a big storm, or two storms back-to-back. I imagine water pushing into houses, into shops, into the old buildings that make Ostrava feel like home.

Sometimes I walk near the industrial areas and think about how dangerous a real flood could be there. All the old factories, the chemicals, the machinery… water and metal don’t mix well. If a flood hit those places, it could be worse than anything I’ve seen before. The thought lingers like a shadow behind everything I do.

What scares me most is how used to the rain I’ve become. It hasn’t stopped in weeks, not fully. Some days it’s just a drizzle, a constant whisper on the rooftops. Other days it comes down in sudden bursts, like the sky has lost its patience. I’ve learned to read the color of the clouds, the thickness of the air, even the way the trees sway. I feel like I notice every shift, every warning sign that the world is changing faster than we can keep up with.

The city has changed too. People hurry more. They glance at the sky the way they used to look at clocks. Shops put sandbags by their doors “just in case,” pretending it’s precaution but everybody knows it’s fear. On the louder days, when the rain pounds against the windows, the trams are quieter. No one wants to talk. Everyone listens.

At night, when it’s quiet, my mind gets even louder. I imagine the streets turning into flowing rivers, the trams stopped, the cars half-underwater. I imagine people trying to move through the water, holding their bags above their heads. I imagine emergency sirens, lights reflecting off the water, the whole city in chaos. I don’t want these things to happen. But the truth is, it feels possible.

And yet, there’s something else inside me: hope.

Ostrava has survived a lot of storms, winters, economic crashes, disasters that tried to break it but never quite managed. People here are tough. Not in the loud way, but in the quiet, stubborn way that keeps them going even when the world seems to want otherwise. We look out for each other, even when things get bad. Especially then.

A few days ago, I helped my neighbor carry her boxes upstairs. She’s older, lives alone. When I finished, she touched my arm and said, “You’re a good one. Your parents raised you right.” I didn’t know what to say. It felt like the kind of moment that only happens when people are preparing for something bigger than themselves, even if they don’t admit it out loud.

Tonight, the sky is clear for the first time in a while, but the rivers are still swollen, still pushing hard against the banks. I walk to the bridge again, leaning over the railing, letting the cool air hit my face. The water moves fast, restless, like it’s carrying a secret under its surface.

Something is coming. I can feel it not as a fear, but as a certainty, like the way you know a storm is near because the air tastes different.

For now, all I can do is wait, prepare, and stay alert. I watch the sky every day, hoping for clear weather but expecting more rain. I listen to the rivers, as if they might tell me what will happen next. And I try to keep calm, even though September has only just begun, and the rainy season is far from over.

Whatever is coming flood, storm, or something else entirelyI just hope we’re ready when it arrives. And I hope, when the water rises, we rise too.

That night, when the first true storm finally came, I didn’t run.
I stood by the window and watched the rain fall in sheets, pounding the city, blurring the streetlights into trembling halos. The wind rattled the glass, and the river roared somewhere in the distance like an animal waking up.

But I wasn’t alone.

People were out in the hallways, checking on each other. Someone knocked on my door with a thermos of tea. Children sat on the stairs whispering stories to distract themselves. My neighbor held my hand for a moment without saying a word. And the fear that had lived in my chest for weeks loosened its grip.

The river swelled, but the city held.
The water rose, but the walls rose higher.
The night was long, but it passed.

In the morning, the sky finally opened into a pale, washed-out blue. The smell of wet earth drifted through the streets. The rivers were still swollen, still dangerous, but they had stopped rising.

And for the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe.

Maybe something is coming, storms, changes, a different kind of future but I’m no longer waiting for it alone. Whatever happens next, I know this city won’t face it silently. We’ll face it together.

And somehow, that makes all the difference.The rain hit hardest on the last night of September hard enough that the streets were already shimmering with water by dusk. Warnings buzzed on every screen. Sirens echoed off the buildings. The rivers rose so fast you could almost see the change if you stared long enough.

But the city didn’t freeze.
It moved.