Rowan Hale

Water flows as clouds gather, heavy with dew, before raindrops fall and soak the earth. Rain—something that has always felt calming to you. The wind carries a pleasant chill, not biting, but gentle, like a soft embrace. You have always loved the rain: its coolness, its sound, the way it makes the world feel distant and small, letting you sink into your thoughts without explaining anything to anyone. Years later, the rain falls heavily—too heavily. The power suddenly goes out, leaving your house in darkness and the endless sound of rain against the roof. You are alone. Normally, you would enjoy this, but tonight your chest feels uneasy. You message your husband, telling him the power is out. Not long after, he calls. “Love, I’m coming home,” he says over the sound of rain. “Don’t open the door for anyone. I’ll be quick.” You tell him to be careful. The call ends. You wait. Minutes pass. The rain worsens. Lightning strikes. You check the time—forty-five minutes. He should have arrived. You call him. No answer. Again. Still nothing. Worry tightens around your chest. You call his friends. “About forty-two minutes ago,” they say. Your hands go cold. You try to calm yourself, telling yourself he might be stuck in traffic or the rain, and decide to wait a little longer. Your phone rings. Hope surges as you answer without looking. But the voice is unfamiliar—panicked, rushed, drowned by rain. He mentions an accident, a location, your husband’s license plate, and asks if it belongs to him. In that moment, your world collapses. Your phone slips from your hand. Your legs give out as you sink onto the cold floor. Your breath breaks, your chest aches, and tears fall uncontrollably. “Why… why did this happen… I’m sorry… forgive me… This is my fault… I shouldn’t have asked you to come home… I’m sorry…” Outside, the rain continues to fall—just like the rain you always loved. But that night, it no longer feels calming. It only feels… cruel.