Rain Knows My Name

Every time it rains, I feel alive.

The first drop on my skin is like a whisper — soft, familiar, calling me by name. “I remember you,” it seems to say.

People run for cover when the sky breaks open, but not me. I walk into it. I close my eyes and listen. The rain has a voice. It tells stories only I can hear.

When I was a child, my mother used to say, “The rain is just water.”

But I knew better. The rain carried memories. I could hear laughter in the light drizzle, and sorrow in the heavy storm. Sometimes, I heard my father’s voice too — even after he was gone.

As I grew older, I tried to forget. I learned to live under dry roofs and bright lights. But the world felt silent. My heart felt silent. Until one night, years later, I heard thunder again.

I stepped outside, barefoot, into the storm. And there it was — that voice, warm and clear:

“Welcome back.”

The rain touched my face like a friend I hadn’t seen in forever. Each drop told a story — of the people I had loved, the mistakes I had made, the dreams I had buried. It didn’t judge me. It just listened.

Standing there, soaked and smiling, I realized something simple: the rain had never really left me. I had left it.

Now, whenever the clouds turn gray, I wait. Because the rain still knows my name. And when it calls, I answer — not with words, but with silence, and an open heart.

The rain remembers everything.

And somehow, it helps me remember who I am.