Aisha smiled. “When you arrive.”

Sam’s heart sank. He’d booked the trip six months ago, a desperate escape from a Chicago winter and a worse breakup. He’d Googled “Singapore best time to travel” and promptly ignored the results, seduced by a cheap flight. February, the articles had said. Or April. Dry. Breezy. Perfect.

December, they warned, was for masochists and last-minute idiots.

“This,” Aisha said, “is the secret of the wet season. The island exhales. The trees grow five shades greener. And the tourists? They’re all inside, waiting for February.”

Aisha put down her chopsticks. “Depends on what you’re looking for.”

Sam flew back to Chicago with tan lines, a new addiction to kopi peng, and a photo on his phone of a rainbow arcing directly over Marina Bay Sands. He’d come in the worst season. And somehow, it had been perfect.

Mr. Tan laughed. “This is December. The monsoon. You chose the wet season.”

“You want the dry season,” she said. “February to April. Blue skies. Cool enough to walk. That’s what the internet tells you.”