The Man Behind the Rain

In a land where the clouds whispered to the hills and the trees grew like memories, there lived a tribe called the Alinao... People of the mist, dreamers of rain, keepers of ancient silence.

The Alinao believed that every heart had a rhythm, and every rhythm called to the sky.

Among them was a girl named Dihan.

She was born on a night when the rain refused to fall—until she cried. Her first breath stirred the clouds. Her tears called down thunder. By dawn, the earth was drenched, and her grandmother whispered, “She is not just ours... she is the sky’s own child.”

She had hair the color of wet ash and eyes that mirrored the rain-soaked forest. When she sang, flowers turned toward her voice. When she walked, the wind followed her like a devoted lover. But what made her most beloved—and most feared—was her gift.

Dihan could summon the rain.

But with that gift came a warning passed down by the Sky Woman herself:

“The one who loves the child of rain must survive three trials.

For love gifted by the heavens is never freely given.

It must be earned.

And only the truest heart will find her hand.”

Dihan grew, weaving songs into shawls and prayers into thread. And though many men came with swords, silver, and promises, her heart remained still—like a lake waiting for the wind.

Until the night of the Harvest Dance.

She rested beneath the Wind Tree, the oldest spirit that guarded their village. The stars watched as music faded and silence deepened. Then she heard it... a voice.

Not strong. Not proud. Just... aching.

It was a song, raw and unpolished, like a truth whispered in the dark.

She stood.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling.

From behind the tree came the reply:

"I am the one you may never see... but you will always feel."

From that night on, she waited for the voice. It came with the dusk, always from the shadows, never asking for anything, only singing.

And then, three men arrived to claim her.

Harim: warrior of the south, draped in gold, followed by war drums and a storm of arrogance.

Lakim: a sea prince, with skin like pearl and a smile that could part tides.

Bato: a stranger. A man of the cliffs. His name meant “stone,” but his eyes held oceans. He said little. Watched much. And when he walked, it was as if even the wind paused to listen.

The elders rejoiced. They declared a test.

Trial One: The Dance of Rain

“Let the man who makes the earth sing be worthy of the girl who calls the sky,” said the high elder.

Harim danced like firewild, furious, loud. The earth shook, but no melody came. Lakim spun like waves, his arms catching the breeze. The trees bowed, but the ground remained silent. Bato stepped barefoot.

Light. Each movement carved from silence. And beneath his feet—music. Faint, at first. Then louder, like brass plates beneath the soil. The people gasped.

He had found the hidden song of the land.

Trial Two: The Arrow and the Wind

The men were given bows. A golden disc, the tanlo, hung far in the field, swaying with the breeze.

Harim missed. Lakim grazed it. Bato’s sister, wise in her ways, whispered something to him and dipped his arrow in beeswax.

When he let it fly, the arrow sang a quiet hymn only the sky could understand. It pierced the center of the tanlo and stayed there glowing under the sun.

Two victories.

But the elders frowned.

Trial Three: The Flight of Fire and Earth

“Let them throw pots filled with fire and coal, and let the sky decide whose goes farthest,” the elders said.

Harim’s pot crashed in a burst of flame. Lakim’s coal flew fast but short. Bato? He smiled.

He had filled his pot with honey. And wrapped his bees in coal dust.

He flung the pot—and it soared. Then released the bees. Drawn to the scent, they carried coal with them—beyond the pots of all other men.

Even the trees seemed to cheer.

But still, the elders hesitated. One final challenge, they said.

“Let the girl choose. Four men will stand. One will be him. If she chooses wrong, the sky will take her back.”

In the field, four figures stood veiled, dressed exactly the same. Dihan approached, her hands cold.

“I will not choose with eyes,” she said.

“I will choose with memory.”

She touched the first. His grip was sharp—like greed. The second pulled her forward, too eager, too loud. The third shook her hand violently, as if she were a prize.And then the fourth...

Soft. Still. Familiar.

Not just a hand, but a home.

She smiled through her tears and whispered,

“I found you.”

The garland fell around his neck. The sky opened—not with thunder, but with light rain, warm and gentle.

The elders bowed their heads. The people cheered. And the voice, once hidden, sang openly beside her.

“She was the rain.

I was the silence.

And together, we became the storm the world could no longer ignore."