The Rain That Never Stopped

It was raining that night — the kind of rain that makes the world look blurry, like a dream.

Nine-year-old Liya sat by the window, watching her father put on his coat. He smiled, even though his phone call had clearly worried him.

“Just some work, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I’ll be back before dinner. Be good for Mom, okay?”

She nodded, hugging him tightly. “Promise you’ll come back soon?”

He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Always.”

That was the last time Liya saw her father.

Hours later, her mother’s phone kept ringing unanswered. The rain got heavier, and worry filled the house. Days turned into weeks — then months — but her father never came back. There was no news, no trace, just silence.

Liya was too young to understand, but she grew up carrying that empty space inside her heart — the space where her father’s laughter used to be.

Six years later.

Liya was turning fifteen. The house was quieter now; her mother worked long hours, and Liya had learned to hide her sadness behind a calm smile.

That morning, her mother gave her a small wooden box tied with a red ribbon.

“This,” her mother said softly, “was something your father gave me… to give you on your fifteenth birthday.”

Liya froze. “Dad?”

Her mother nodded, her eyes wet with tears. “He said it was for you — that one day, you’d be ready to open it.”

Her hands trembled as she untied the ribbon. Inside the box was a folded letter and a small puzzle made of strange wooden pieces.

She unfolded the letter. The handwriting was unmistakable — it was her father’s.

“My little Liya,

If you are reading this, you are fifteen now. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for your birthdays, your smiles, or your stories. There are things you’re too young to know, but someday you will.

This puzzle will lead you to me.

Each piece has a clue — follow them with your heart, not just your mind. Remember, the rain isn’t always sad. Sometimes, it’s how love returns.”

— Dad

Liya’s heart pounded. She lifted the wooden puzzle — carved symbols, small letters, numbers — like a riddle.

Her mother looked at her gently. “I never opened it. He said it was meant for you alone.”

Liya spent the whole night studying the puzzle, turning it over and over. One piece had tiny numbers carved on it — 2.10.2009, the day he disappeared. Another had a symbol that looked like a mountain, another a small drop — maybe rain.

She felt a tear slip down her cheek.

Could her father still be alive?

Had he left this to help her find him?

For the first time in years, Liya felt something she hadn’t felt since that rainy night — hope.

She whispered to herself, “I’ll find you, Dad. I promise.”

Outside, it began to rain again.

And this time, Liya didn’t hide from it. She stepped into the rain — because somewhere, she believed her father was still waiting to be found.