Where the Rain Forgets to Fall

No one remembers when the rain stopped falling on Nareth.

Not because it happened suddenly—no, it was so gradual that by the time anyone noticed, it felt like it had always been that way. The sky above the village was always a soft, gentle blue. Clouds wandered by like lazy sheep but never gathered. Never threatened. Never cried.

The people of Nareth didn’t mind. No umbrellas to carry. No muddy boots or flooded fields. The crops grew strong thanks to the morning mist and the ever-gurgling springs that bubbled from beneath the hills.

It was paradise, some said.

But paradise, as we know, always costs something.

I first came to Nareth as a traveler, a drifter really—looking for a place that felt like home, though I didn’t quite know what that meant. My map didn’t list the village, but I followed a winding path through the trees, drawn by the eerie stillness in the air. Even the wind seemed to pause as I stepped into the valley basin.

From the moment I arrived, people looked at me the way one might look at a dropped mirror—shocked it broke, but unsure how to piece it back together.

“You're not from here,” said the shopkeeper, though I hadn’t introduced myself yet.

“No,” I replied, unsettled. “Is it that obvious?”

She gave a polite smile. “We don’t get outsiders much.”

I stayed at the only inn in town, run by an old woman named Mirella. She had eyes like dark stones—heavy and ancient, watching everything without ever really blinking.

“No forecasts here,” she told me over tea that first night. “The weather doesn’t change.”

I looked out the window at the starry sky. “Don’t you miss the rain?”

She hesitated, just for a moment. “No. But sometimes... the land remembers it.”

I asked her what she meant, but she only sipped her tea.

Days turned into weeks. The quiet of Nareth got into my bones. No horns. No sirens. Just wind in the trees and the occasional laughter of children.

But beneath the calm, something felt wrong.

There were no animals—no birds, no squirrels, not even insects. The village pets had all grown old and vanished, and no one ever replaced them. The people smiled too easily, their voices too even, like they were reading lines they’d rehearsed for generations.

I once asked a young girl if she’d ever seen a thunderstorm. Her face went blank, as if I’d spoken in another language. Her mother quickly pulled her away.

That night, I had my first dream in weeks.

I stood in a stone clearing surrounded by silent villagers, each one holding an umbrella, though the sky was clear. A single drop of rain fell—but instead of splashing, it hovered in the air like glass, suspended. The people looked at it with awe... and fear.

I woke with Mirella’s voice in my head:

“The land remembers.”

I decided to explore deeper into the forested ridge that encircled the village. People told me it was unsafe—too steep, too easy to get lost. But I had to know what lay beyond.

About a mile into the woods, I found it.

An ancient stone gate, cracked and covered in moss. Just past it, a shallow basin of smooth black rock. At its center was a small pool—dry, but shaped like it had once collected something precious. Surrounding the pool were carvings—faces tilted toward the sky, mouths open.

As I knelt to examine them, a soft wind swept across the basin, carrying a whisper: “One must hold the storm.”

I turned, heart pounding—but no one was there.

When I returned to Nareth, the villagers knew.

They didn’t say a word, but their faces changed. Their eyes avoided mine. Children were kept indoors. Mirella left a note on my bed:

“You touched the memory. Now it knows you.”

That night, I dreamed again. A much younger Mirella stood in the same basin, weeping as rain poured from her hands into the ground. The villagers around her chanted, arms raised.

When I woke, the sky was darker than I had ever seen it.

Clouds had gathered—not drifting lazily, but twisting, churning. The first drop fell with a sound like glass breaking.

Then the downpour came.

It was not gentle.

Nareth was never meant to be touched by rain again. I watched as the villagers stood motionless in the streets, their faces turned upward. Some smiled. Some cried. Some dropped to their knees.

And then I understood.

Years ago, they had made a bargain—traded the chaos of weather for peace. But every few decades, the land demanded a keeper. Someone had to remember the storm. Someone had to hold it.

And this time, that someone was me.

Now, the skies above Nareth are clear once more.

But deep beneath the surface, I dream.

And in my dreams, it rains.

Forever.