The City That Appears Only on Rainy Nights

I. The Rainfall and the Fork

It was supposed to be a regular drive home.

Rain had started falling like glass beads on the windshield. The highway stretched endlessly ahead, empty, grey, and soaked. I was coming from a cancelled business meeting — stressed, tired, emotionally numb.

At 9:47 PM, I saw the fork.

It wasn’t on my GPS. A narrow road arched into a foggy forest, lined with crooked streetlamps. A faded, rusting sign above the turn read:

“Welcome to Darabad – Population 1,014”

I don’t know why, but I turned.

Maybe it was the fog. Maybe curiosity.

Or maybe it was something else pulling me in.

II. Arrival

The road curved slowly, like it wanted to hold me longer. Then, the city emerged — dimly glowing in the mist, like a forgotten memory.

Darabad looked like a town frozen in time.

People walked on brick streets with umbrellas made of waxed cloth. No cars, no wires, no cell towers. Gas lanterns flickered. Children in vintage school uniforms played hopscotch in the rain.

Everyone moved calmly. Too calmly. As if on cue.

I rolled down my window. A woman in a faded sari passed and gave me a smile that lasted too long. She said:

“You made it. The rain chose you.”

III. The Hotel Without a Receptionist

The only hotel was an old three-story building with a swinging sign: “Darabad Inn.”

No receptionist. Just an open guestbook.

My name was already written.

Room: 207.

A brass key lay next to the ink. I took it, climbed the creaking stairs, and noticed something odd:

Every wall clock ticked backward.

The minute hand didn’t move. The hour hand spun like a windmill.

When I entered Room 207, it was… perfect. Clean, warm, welcoming. On the wall was a painting of the city — with a tiny red car parked outside the hotel.

My car.

IV. Stranger Than a Dream

I wandered that night. The streets shimmered, yet cast no reflections. I passed shops that sold books with blank pages, and a barber cutting no one’s hair.

At the center of the city stood a church with no cross. Inside hung a large painting.

Of me.

Same face. Same clothes. Same expression.

The plaque below it read:

“Returned: 11:38 PM.”

I turned to leave — but the doors were gone.

The wall was solid brick.

And then the bell rang.

V. Loops Begin

I ran.

Out of the church, across the street, to the road I entered from. I drove full speed.

But ten minutes later, I passed the same sign again:

“Welcome to Darabad – Population 1,015”

I slammed the brakes.

Hadn’t it been 1,014 before?

I looked in the rearview mirror — the hotel was behind me again. My hands trembled. My phone? Dead. GPS? Static. Time? 9:47 PM.

Same as when I arrived.

VI. The Library of Time

I found a library.

Old, massive, empty — except for shelves sorted by dates instead of authors.

I pulled out the book for today.

On the last page:

“Name: [Ali KHAN]

Returned: 9:47 PM

Retention: Active

Memory Fade Begins: 72 hours

Role: Observer”

And underneath…

“Next arrival due in 3 days.”

“Release slot available: pending.”

VII. The Dead Can’t Leave

Every time I tried to escape, the loop reset.

If I went left, I reached the fountain.

If I went right, I reached the market.

If I walked into any shop — I’d appear back in my hotel bed.

Once, I stood at the edge of the city and shouted:

“LET ME OUT!”

People stopped. Looked up.

And every face was mine.

Different ages. Different clothes.

But my face.

VIII. The Deal

A man approached me in the church.

He wore a black coat and had no reflection in the broken window glass.

“The city doesn’t trap people,” he said.

“It replaces them.”

“Every time it rains, the road opens. A traveler enters. And the one who’s been here longest... goes free.”

“But the price is silence. They return with no memory. No voice. No name.”

He handed me a pen.

“Write the name of the next. Only then will you leave.”

I refused.

That night, I found a fresh tombstone in the park.

It had my name — with tomorrow’s date.

IX. The Rain Again

It’s raining again.

The road will open.

A new traveler will come. And I have a choice.

Either I write their name.

Or I take my place in the painting.

The clocks are spinning faster now.

Darabad is waiting.