THE TASTE OF RAIN

The Taste of Rain

By Lola Dam

The rain came in sheets, heavy and fast, rattling the windows of St. Augustine's Care Home like impatient fingers.

Walter lay in his narrow bed, eyes on the ceiling, the rhythm of the storm echoing in his chest. Around him, the room was still. The television in the corner buzzed low, stuck on a cooking show no one was watching.

He shifted, the sheet catching on his ankles. Something stirred inside him—a hunger, sudden and sharp. Not for food. Not for warmth. But for the rain.

The taste of it.

Not the smell, not the sound, but the strange, metallic sweetness he remembered from childhood. He used to tilt his head back and let the sky pour into his open mouth, his tongue catching what he imagined were the first drops ever made.

He hadn’t tasted rain in decades.

He swung his legs over the bed. His knees creaked, but he stood. The night nurse wouldn’t make rounds for another hour. Plenty of time.

Walter shuffled into his slippers, reached for the coat on the back of the door—thin, barely waterproof, but good enough—and stepped into the hallway. The lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere, a clock ticked with the exaggerated patience of the old.

The exit door was cracked. Probably left ajar by one of the younger residents sneaking a cigarette. Walter smiled. Freedom by accident.

Outside, the rain slapped the pavement like it had a grudge. Walter hesitated beneath the awning, then stepped into it.

It soaked him instantly, washing over his hair, his face, and his chest.

He tilted his head back, opened his mouth wide, and waited.

The drops hit his tongue, cold and bitter. Nothing like what he remembered. It tasted like rust. Like metal pipes. Like the air in the halls of St. Augustine's.

Not like the fields behind his childhood home. Not like laughter echoing through the streets of his youth. Not like Maggie’s hair dripping beside him as they ran through a summer storm.

He opened wider, desperate.

Nothing.

Just rain.

He sank onto the nearest bench, hands trembling in his lap. It wasn’t the taste he’d been hungry for—it was the feeling. The way it had once made him feel alive, young, porous to the world.

Now he felt like stone.

He didn’t hear her approach at first.

“You’ll catch a cold,” the voice said gently.

Walter turned. A girl—no older than twenty—stood beside him with a bright yellow umbrella.

“I used to do the same thing,” she said. “As a kid. Catch rain on my tongue.”

He chuckled, hollow. “Doesn’t taste the same anymore.”

She tilted her head. “It never did. It was the moment that tasted sweet. Not the rain.”

He looked at her properly then. She had the same serious eyes Maggie once had. That mix of kindness and clarity.

“I’m Walter,” he said.

“Lena.”

She offered the umbrella. He shook his head.

“I needed to feel it,” he said. “One more time.”

Lena nodded like she understood. Then she sat beside him, letting the umbrella fall closed between them. They sat in silence, letting the water soak through their clothes and their skin, down to something quieter.

When the nurse finally found him, Walter was smiling.

The rain still didn’t taste like it used to.

But for a moment, it didn’t matter.