A Shade in the Sun

The sun had ruled the skies for far too long.

It was the middle of summer in the quiet village of Garyala. For over a month, there had been no clouds, no rain and no breeze. Every day felt like a repeat of the last — hot, dry and endless. The ground had cracked from thirst, the plants had wilted and even the birds had stopped singing.

People stayed indoors as much as they could. Children no longer played in the streets. The ponds had dried up and the village well was almost empty. Fans spun lazily, offering little relief. Sweat was part of daily life and so was waiting.

“Will it ever rain again?” little Fariha asked her grandfather one afternoon. They were sitting under the shade of the neem tree, the only place that still offered some coolness.

Her grandfather, Baba Hameed, looked up at the empty sky. It was a dull, dusty blue, with no sign of clouds. He smiled gently and said, “The clouds always come back, beta. They just forget the way sometimes.”

Fariha looked confused. “Clouds forget?”

“Yes,” he chuckled. “But when they return, they always bring the memory of rain.”

That night, as the village slept in sticky heat, something changed far above them. At first, no one noticed. But by early morning, a strange calm had spread through the air. It wasn’t as hot. The wind felt cooler — soft and quiet, like a whisper.

When the sun rose, it didn’t shine as brightly as before. A thin layer of gray had appeared in the sky. Slowly, hour by hour, the clouds grew. They moved like old friends returning home — quiet but full of meaning.

By noon, the sky was no longer clear. It was covered in gentle, soft clouds that looked like cotton. People stepped out of their homes, surprised. It wasn’t raining yet, but the sun had lost its power. The harsh light had turned into a warm glow and for the first time in weeks, shadows appeared again.

Children ran to the fields, shouting and laughing. Farmers looked up and folded their hands in prayer. Mothers brought out clay pots and placed them outside, hoping for rainwater.

“It’s coming,” Baba Hameed said as he felt the breeze. “The sky is remembering.”

And then, it happened.

The first drop fell on Fariha’s hand. She stared at it, wide-eyed. Another drop fell on her cheek, then on the dry ground. Soon, the air was filled with tiny splashes. Rain.

It wasn’t heavy at first — just a soft, steady drizzle. But it was enough. Enough to cool the burning soil. Enough to make the scent of wet earth rise. Enough to bring smiles to tired faces.

Fariha ran around in the rain, her arms wide open, laughing. Other children joined her, their clothes soaking but their hearts light. Grown-ups stood with faces lifted to the sky, eyes closed, letting the cool drops wash away weeks of heat and waiting.

Trees seemed to dance. Birds returned to sing. The plants, once drooping, stood up again as if waking from a deep sleep.

The whole village felt alive.

That evening, the rain still continued, soft and soothing. The clouds hung low, like a cozy blanket covering the world. Lights flickered in windows and the sound of raindrops played like music on rooftops.

Inside his home, Baba Hameed told Fariha a story about how the clouds once fell in love with the earth and promised to return after every summer to kiss it with rain. She listened, her eyes sparkling.

She looked out the window and whispered, “Thank you, clouds.”

Moral of the Story:

No matter how long the heat lasts or how dry the days become, clouds always find their way back. Just like hope in hard times, they may take time, but when they return, they bring peace, comfort and the memory of better days. Never stop believing in change — even the hottest summer can end with gentle rain.