The Sound Of Rain
The soft patter of rain kissed the windowpane, steady and unhurried. The apartment was dim, touched only by the warm glow of her laptop screen and the faint flicker of candlelight. Books lay open across the table, pages curling slightly from the moisture in the air. A half-empty cup of coffee sat beside her, long gone cold.
The hum of the record player filled the quiet — the gentle static between songs, the familiar comfort of vinyl spinning in the background.
They say silence helps you think, I reminded myself, fingers pausing over the keyboard. But for me… it’s the rain.
There’s something about it — the rhythm, the scent, the way it wraps around everything — that feels too much like memory. Every drop sounds like it knows a secret I’m not ready to face.
On my screen, the title of my research paper stared back at me:
“Cognitive Responses to Emotional Triggers – Dr. Ashley Maren.”
Doctor. she smiled.
Sometimes that word feels heavier than it should.
I spent years studying how emotions work — why people feel what they feel, how the mind reacts to pain. A Ph.D. in psychology, a life dedicated to understanding others. Yet here I am, failing miserably at understanding myself.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples. The sound of the rain outside syncs with the steady tick of the clock. For a moment, I close my eyes — just breathing, listening.
Then the record clicks.
A soft scratch, a brief silence… and then — that song.
My heart stops for a second.
The melody spills into the room, slow and haunting. The notes curl through the air like smoke, fragile but impossible to ignore.
I know this song.
Every beat, every rise and fall, every breath of it.
It’s him.
The room feels smaller suddenly. The shadows stretch longer. My fingers hover above the keys, frozen mid-thought. I turn toward the window, my reflection staring back — tired eyes, messy hair, the faint glow of the city behind me blurred by the rain.
I whisper before I can stop myself.
“Edric Vale.”
The name feels strange on my tongue, like something both forbidden and familiar. It hangs in the air, mixing with the scent of rain and old coffee.
For years, I’ve tried to bury that part of my life — the sound of his music, the way his laugh used to echo, the quiet things we never said. But tonight, the rain has other plans.
And as that song keeps playing, I realize… maybe some memories don’t fade. They just wait — quietly — for the rain to bring them back.
