Rain on Sunday

Rain drummed a rhythmic lullaby against the window, the steady patter a soothing yet melancholic backdrop to the gray Sunday afternoon. Justice Jones sat in his small, dimly lit apartment, staring at the droplets racing down the glass. Each bead of water seemed to carry a fragment of his thoughts, his mind a labyrinth of memories and reflections.

Since retiring from the special forces, Justice had grappled with the transition to civilian life. The abrupt change from high-octane missions to the quiet, almost stifling normalcy of everyday existence was disorienting. He often found himself lost in thought, haunted by the ghosts of his past exploits. Today was one of those days.

The rain had a way of unlocking memories, and as he gazed out at the soaked streets, Justice’s mind wandered back to a particularly harrowing mission. It was during a monsoon season, in a far-off land where danger lurked around every corner. His team had been tasked with extracting a high-value target from a hostile zone. The rain then had been relentless, much like today, turning the ground into a quagmire and complicating their every move.

Justice closed his eyes, the vivid recollections flooding his senses. The roar of the helicopter blades, the sharp crack of gunfire, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he led his team through the chaos. He could almost feel the weight of his gear, the dampness of his clothes clinging to his skin. Each memory was a visceral reminder of a life lived on the edge.

But it wasn’t just the missions that lingered in his mind; it was the people. The bonds forged in the crucible of combat were unlike any other, a brotherhood built on trust and shared hardship. Faces flashed before him—some of them smiling, others contorted in pain. He remembered their voices, their laughter, their fears.

The rain grew heavier, the sound intensifying, as if echoing the storm within him. Justice opened his eyes, the apartment around him a stark contrast to the vivid memories. The walls felt like they were closing in, the air thick with a sense of confinement. He rose from his chair, pacing the small space in an attempt to shake off the oppressive weight of his thoughts.

His therapist had told him to find anchors, small rituals to ground him when the memories became too overwhelming. Justice glanced at the corner of the room, where a small wooden chest sat. Inside were mementos from his past life—dog tags, mission patches, letters from his team.

Reaching inside, he pulled out a small, worn notebook. Flipping through its pages, he found solace in the familiar scrawl of his own handwriting. It was a journal he had kept during his last deployment, a record of his thoughts and experiences.

He settled back into his chair, the notebook open on his lap. As he read, the words transported him back to those days, but this time with a sense of distance. Writing had always been his way of processing, of making sense of the chaos. It was a bridge between his past and his present, a way to navigate the complex landscape of his mind.

The rain outside began to ease, the deluge giving way to a gentle drizzle. Justice felt a similar calm settle over him, the act of reading his own words a balm to his troubled spirit.

Looking out the window again, he watched as the clouds began to part, a hint of sunlight breaking through. It was a reminder that storms, no matter how fierce, eventually pass. And so, Justice Jones sat in his apartment, the rain on Sunday a metaphor for his own journey—a testament to resilience, to finding light even in the darkest of times.