The Memory of Rain

The rain always began the same way — first a gentle breeze, filling the air with something ancient, then the first drops falling like tentative strokes of an invisible brush. People hurried to find shelter, but he stood in the middle of the street, arms outstretched, as if trying to catch something unseen.

“What are you doing out there?” she asked, watching him from beneath the café’s awning.

He turned slowly, with the unhurried confidence of someone who knows something others don’t.

“I’m listening to the rain,” he replied.

She smirked.
“Oh? Is it telling you fairy tales?”

“In a way, yes.”

He looked up. The raindrops fell on his face, sliding down his cheeks, but he didn’t blink.

“Rain isn’t just water,” he continued. “It’s memory. The memory of everything that’s ever lived.”

She raised an eyebrow.
“Right. Scientists have proven you can find DNA in rain drops…”

“Not just DNA. Memories.”

Now she was intrigued.

“You’re saying that in this rain, there could be…”

“A trace of someone who lived a hundred, a thousand years ago. Maybe this is rain that once fell on a king’s shoulder. Or on the face of a child who left this world too soon.”

She looked at the drops tracing paths down the glass.

“And you think we can… hear it?”

He smiled.
“I don’t think. I know.”

He pulled a small glass vial from his pocket and held it out into the rain.

“You’ve heard of PCR? How we can detect DNA?” he asked. “I went further. I learned to read the rain.”

She felt a strange tightness in her chest, a tremor of premonition.

“Whose voice did you hear?”

He hesitated, gazing into the grey sky.

“When I ran the first analysis… I heard my mother’s voice. She died when I was five. But I knew it was her.”

She held her breath.
“That’s impossible.”

“It’s possible. We just never listened.”

Suddenly the wind shifted, and the rain grew heavier. He closed his eyes again, letting the droplets stream down his face.

“Listen,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes. And suddenly—voices.

Not words, not sounds, but something like the echo of distant memories. A child’s laughter. An old man’s sigh. The rustle of pages. A woman’s quiet sob.

She opened her eyes, breathing heavily.

“My God…”

“The rain remembers,” he said. “It brings us the memory of those who once were.”

She watched the droplets falling onto the pavement, and suddenly felt something stir deep within her.

“What if I asked the rain to tell me about someone?”

He nodded.
“Then listen. Because the rain always remembers.”