1. Shame Walks Through Silent Rain 2. Beneath Trees, Shame Walks On 3. The Rain Knows

Shame Was Walking

In a night full of old trees, Shame was walking alone. The forest arched over him like a cathedral forgotten by time, its branches trembling beneath the gentle weight of rain. Drops fell steadily, each one finding its way to his wet face. His clothes, though soaked by the endless drizzle, were not burdened by the weight of the rain or the heavy breath of the world. He was untouched by the present, moving through the forest not as a man, but as a shadow passing through the remnants of a forgotten dream.

He did not step into reality; only his bare feet touched the soft soil of the wet ground, sinking slightly with each step, as if the earth itself wished to swallow the sound of him. No one watched him. He expected no one. The trees did not whisper greetings, and the moon remained veiled behind a curtain of clouds. Only the sound of his heartbeat echoed in his ears, slow and steady, mingling with the rhythm of the rain—a quiet symphony against the silence that filled him.

Every step he took was a continuation of a long and winding story, a tale told not in words but in pauses, glances, and echoes. It was the story of a life that had passed through dark mountains and colder nights, of burdens carried across invisible landscapes, of wounds not visible to the eyes but carved into the soul. He had been many things in many lives—a son, a friend, a stranger, a burden—and each identity had peeled from him like old bark in the wind, leaving only Shame, walking.

This night was like many he had known—dark, deep, and drenched in silence—but different, too. Tonight, he was not tired. He did not fear death. He did not hope for life. He simply walked, unbound by desire, untouched by purpose. His journey had become its own meaning, his motion a quiet defiance of stillness. Like the rain falling around him—indifferent, persistent—he moved forward with no destination.

The trees watched him, but said nothing. Some had twisted trunks, gnarled by centuries, and their bark looked like scarred skin. He wondered if they, too, remembered things—old storms, old fires, old voices that once laughed under their shade. He passed a broken tree, split in half by lightning long ago. Moss had clothed its wound. A fox blinked at him from the shadows, its eyes like twin embers in the black. He did not stop. The path was not marked, but his feet remembered it.

A small stream crossed his way, its water black under the night. He stepped into it. The cold rushed up his legs, but he did not shiver. Instead, he stood still for a moment, letting the current press against his skin, letting it carry something away—some thought, some forgotten name. Then he climbed the opposite bank and moved on, the sound of water fading behind him like a memory.

Shame did not speak, but if he had, the forest would have heard a voice that once knew how to pray, how to cry, how to sing lullabies to a sleeping child. That voice had grown quiet. Now, his silence spoke for him. And the rain, ever-faithful, answered.

Sometimes a face flickered before him—not seen, but sensed. A mother, her hands worn from labor, her eyes full of unshed forgiveness. A brother, laughing from a time before betrayal. A girl, maybe, under a yellow tree, whispering a promise. But Shame did not stop for ghosts. They had walked ahead of him long ago.

He was not seeking anything. Not forgiveness. Not redemption. Not even peace. He was simply becoming part of the night—an echo without origin, a wind that once had a name. Yet within him was a wound that pulsed with every heartbeat, not bleeding, but glowing faintly like a coal hidden in ash. It was not agony. It was remembrance.

The rain, in its gentleness, seemed to understand. It touched his face like an old friend, washing what could not be seen. It slid into the corners of his eyes, as if it, too, carried sorrow. If the heart has a language beyond words, it was raining that night in its purest form.

Above him, thunder rolled—distant, ancient, like the gods clearing their throats. But there was no fear in him. Not anymore. The fear had passed like a fever, burned away by long nights, by silence too deep to speak into. What remained now was simply the act of walking. Of being. Of carrying a pain that was no longer heavy, only real.

And so, he walked—past trees older than memory, past stones that remembered empires, past creatures who watched with quiet eyes. No one followed him. No one called his name. The world neither noticed nor forgot him. And that, perhaps, was freedom.

Let the rain bear witness. Let the earth remember his steps. Let the darkness know his silence.

Shame was walking.