When the Rain Knew My Name

I had never believed that weather could hold memories. However, that changed on the Tuesday when it rained as if it had something to convey.

It was late October, the kind of cold that seeps through your sleeves and lingers in your bones. I had just stepped out of my small apartment above "Pages & Postcards," the secondhand bookstore I managed on the quieter side of the city. I opened the creaking wooden door as I did every morning, expecting another silent day filled with the smell of old paper, Earl Grey tea, and unwritten stories.

But something felt different that day.

The sky, moody and bruised, had a certain softness to it. Rain tapped gently on the windowpanes like a timid visitor seeking permission to stay. There was a stillness in the air—a promise, or perhaps a warning. I was unsure which.

The Forgotten Umbrella

Around noon, a customer entered.

She was not like the regulars who came searching for Hemingway or Austen. She was soaked, despite the large navy-blue umbrella she carried. Her hair clung to her face, and she had a worn-out leather satchel with a red string tied to the zipper. She looked around as if she wasn’t truly seeing the books, but rather listening to them whisper.

"Just browsing," she said when I greeted her.

She spent nearly forty minutes in the poetry section. Then, without making a purchase, she left—but she forgot her umbrella.

It was only when I stepped outside to bring in the signboard that I noticed it: leaning against the bench near the entrance, already collecting raindrops like someone gathering memories. I grabbed it and hurried outside to see if I could catch her, but the street had already swallowed her whole.

Something about that umbrella felt personal.

So I kept it, just in case she returned.

She didn’t.

The Letters Begin

The following day, I opened the umbrella inside the store—not out of superstition, but out of curiosity.

Tucked into its fabric ribs was a folded piece of paper.

At first, I thought it was a receipt. But no—it was a handwritten note in black ink, with slanted script.

"Dear R., If you're reading this, it means you finally opened it. Or maybe you got caught in the rain again. Either way, thank you for still caring enough to notice. The umbrella remembers too, you know. The bench. The rain. That last goodbye."

That was all.

No name, no signature. No explanation.

I stood there in silence, unsure of what to make of it. But one thing was clear: someone had hidden a memory inside an umbrella and left it behind—perhaps intentionally.

Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Who was R.? Who wrote the letter? Was it part of a goodbye ritual? A lover’s last gift?

Or simply... a story waiting to be discovered?

Then the second note arrived.

This one was inside the same umbrella, tucked differently. I hadn’t noticed it before. I only found it when I accidentally knocked the umbrella over while dusting the shelf near the front door.

"Dear R., Today it rained exactly like that evening when we found the book of unsent letters. I wonder if you ever mailed them, or just kept them in your drawer, like you did with your fears."

The words sent chills through me. Not because they were frightening, but because they felt real.

Too real.

I Became Obsessed

I became obsessed.

Every evening, I’d open the umbrella, hoping for another letter. I even began jotting down notes in a journal:

October 29 – heavy rain. Umbrella quiet.

October 31 – drizzle. No new note.

November 1 – cloudburst at noon. New letter found near handle.

They kept coming—slowly, sporadically.

Each one was a fragment of a story. Always addressed to “R.” Always written as if the author knew exactly what they were doing.

Some were poetic, others haunting.

"The city hasn’t changed, but your absence makes every street feel like a question."

"If I could choose again, I would wait on the rainy bench an hour longer. Maybe then you wouldn’t have walked away."

"You used to say I saw patterns in everything. Now I only see you—in clouds, puddles, silence."

I began reading them aloud to myself, then to customers who were curious enough to ask. They started calling it the rain umbrella mystery. A few even came in just to see it.

Someone suggested I post the letters anonymously on a blog. I did. Within weeks, the blog had over 3,000 followers.

Still, no one claimed the umbrella. No one said, “Hey, that was mine.”

The Day the Rain Matched the Words

One particular letter resonated more than the others.

"I left something inside the red poetry book—your favorite. The one with the broken spine. You said it reminded you of us. Open it when it rains and you’re ready."

I froze.

We had only one red-spined poetry book in the store: The Collected Poems of Anna Akhmatova.

Its spine had been taped, then retaped. Faded maroon cloth. I picked it up and opened it.

A photograph fell out.

It depicted two people on the very bench outside the store, under the same umbrella.

The photo was water-damaged and blurry, but their smiles were genuine. One of them was holding a book in one hand, while the other’s fingers curled tightly around a red string tied to a satchel.

The woman who visited that rainy Tuesday.

And someone else—presumably “R.”

Suddenly, this wasn’t just a story. It was a memory that had found me, chosen me, and pulled me in like the rain pulling at the gutter.

I was no longer just a bookseller. I had become a witness.

The Last Letter

Winter arrived. The rain became less frequent, and the umbrella remained by the front counter.

Then one night, it stormed.

Thunder cracked the sky like an old promise breaking. I stayed late, watching the street from inside the warm glow of my store. The umbrella sat beside me like a sleeping dog.

And then I found it—one last note, this time sealed in plastic.

"Dear Finder, Thank you. If you're reading this, it means you cared enough to keep looking. We never got to finish our story. But you did. You gave it an ending. Or maybe a beginning. That’s more than we ever hoped for. Please keep the umbrella. And if you ever find someone waiting in the rain—share it."

I cried.

Not loudly, but quietly. The way bookstores cry when no one buys the books but they keep opening every day anyway.

I placed the letter in the poetry section, between pages 87 and 88 of the red-spined book.

It’s still there.

And the umbrella? It now stays by the door. Sometimes people ask if it’s for sale.

I simply smile and say, “No. But you can borrow it if you’re chasing something lost in the rain.”