White

The rain was white that morning — not snow, not fog, just a thin mist that seemed unsure what it wanted to be. It blurred the world into a soft watercolor: the old academy on the hill, the bent trees, the path I used to walk every day.

I hadn’t been back in years. The building looked smaller now, its windows clouded with dust, the ivy climbing like old regrets. But the bell tower still stood, and somehow, I needed to see it again

When I pushed open the door, the air smelled like chalk and damp paper. My shoes echoed down the hallway — that sound used to mean late for class. Now it just meant alone.

I found the lecture hall, the one where we read poems we didn’t fully understand. The desks were still carved with initials. I ran my fingers over mine — E.W. — and thought about how sure I’d been that I’d do something remarkable with my life. I guess everyone feels that way at seventeen.

Professor Alden’s desk was still there too, scarred and dust-covered. He had this way of talking that made you want to be brave. He once told us,

“Don’t chase success. Chase clarity. The rest is noise.”

Back then, I didn’t get it. I thought clarity was the same as answers. Now I know it’s just the courage to ask questions you might never solve.

The white rain pressed against the windows, slow and patient. I could hear it breathing through the cracks. I sat in one of the old desks — my old seat, second row from the front — and opened my notebook. I still carried it, though the pages had yellowed.

There was one blank page left. I’d saved it for something important, but I’d never known what that was. I touched my pen to it and waited.

At first, nothing came. Then, almost without meaning to, I wrote:

“The rain turns white when the world forgets its color.”

It wasn’t profound. But it was mine.

I thought of all the things I’d wanted to be — a poet, a teacher, a traveler — and how instead I’d become something quieter. Not a failure, just… smaller. Maybe that’s what happens when the world gets loud: you lower your voice so you can still hear yourself think.

I remembered the last thing Professor Alden said before he left. The school had decided poetry wasn’t practical anymore. He smiled — that small, knowing smile — and said,

“Don’t let them teach you how to forget wonder.”

Then he was gone.

Outside, the rain thickened until everything glowed. My reflection blurred in the glass. For a second, I saw the younger me — eyes bright, heart racing — the girl who believed words could save the world.

I closed the notebook and stood. My handprint stayed faintly on the dusted desk. That felt right — a mark, nothing more, nothing less.

When I stepped outside, the air was cool and clean. The rain looked white only because the sky was gray behind it — just light bending through the ordinary. I smiled. That was the contrast all along:

White rain is illusion. Clear rain is truth.

White rain hides the world in beauty; clear rain shows it as it is.

And standing there, soaked and quiet, I finally understood what he’d meant all those years ago. Wonder isn’t something you lose. It’s something you stop recognizing.

I tilted my face to the sky, let the rain find me.