The Quiet Storm
The rain started again. Not loudly, but
softly and sadly, like the sky was
quietly crying.
She stood by the window. Her shape
looked like a delicate picture inside
the old wooden frame. Her room was
full of shadows and dust. There were
many jars on the shelves. Each jar was
closed tight and had a date on it.
Raindrops tapped on the window
glass. She didn’t move.
She picked up the newest jar, walked
outside barefoot in the light rain, and
held the jar up to the sky.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
She whispered, "One day, all of you
will come back to me."
And so, she bottled the rain. Not just
water, but her memories, sadness,
silence—everything she could not say
out loud.
