The Sound of Rain

It had been raining for three days straight in Lusaka, and the sound had become a kind of background music to Naomi’s thoughts. She sat by the window of her late father’s house, watching water run down the glass, tracing the same paths over and over again — like memories replaying themselves.

Her father had been a music teacher for forty years. The small, ivy-covered house still smelled faintly of violin rosin and old books. Every wall seemed to hum with the echoes of the past — laughter, songs, lessons that lasted long after the final bell.

When he passed away, Naomi inherited the house, the piano, and a stack of letters tied with a faded ribbon. She hadn’t opened them — not yet.

Naomi had moved to the city years ago, chasing a career in advertising, trading melodies for deadlines. She told herself she’d go back home “when things slowed down.” But life, as it tends to, only sped up.

And now, here she was — surrounded by silence and rain, facing the ghosts she’d left behind.

She finally opened one of the letters. Her father’s handwriting was delicate but confident, written in blue ink that had barely faded:

“Naomi, if you are reading this, it means the rain has found you again. You always loved the sound of it — do you remember? You said it made the world softer. When life becomes too loud, my dear, listen to the rain. It will teach you how to breathe again.”

She smiled through tears. He had always spoken like that — as if poetry was a language everyone should know.

Naomi spent the rest of the afternoon reading letter after letter. Some were short, small notes of encouragement written years apart. Others were longer — lessons disguised as stories.

“Music, my child, is not about perfection. It’s about honesty.”

“Forgive yourself as easily as you forgive others.”

“One day, when you hear rain on the roof and no longer feel lonely, that’s when you’ll know I’m still with you.”

As she read, the rain grew louder, then softer, like a song that understood her mood. She closed her eyes and placed one hand on the piano. The keys were dusty, but still alive.

She pressed one.

Then another.

A quiet melody began to form — hesitant at first, then fuller, stronger.

For the first time in years, Naomi played. The sound filled the room, blending with the rain outside. It was imperfect, trembling — but it was honest.

And as she played, she felt something shift inside her — like forgiveness, or maybe peace.

When the final note faded, she looked at her father’s portrait hanging above the piano. He seemed to be smiling, listening.

Naomi whispered, “I hear you, Papa.”

The rain softened to a gentle rhythm. The world, for a moment, felt still.

That night, she left the letters on the piano, open and breathing. The house that once echoed with lessons was alive again — not with instruction, but with memory.

The next morning, the rain stopped. A pale sunrise broke through the clouds, turning every drop on the window into light.

Naomi brewed a cup of tea, sat by the piano, and began to write — her first song in years.

It was called “The Sound of Rain.”