The Night the Rain Spoke

The rain-soaked night that changed everything remains etched in my memory like a whispered secret. The rhythmic patter against the roof was almost soothing, lulling me to sleep. But as I lay there, the rain seemed louder than usual, stripping away the distractions of the day, leaving only my thoughts and the stillness of my room.

But my room was no ordinary one. It was an attic in a nipa hut, perched above the lush greenery of our farm, its roof woven from coconut leaves. As a child, I spent hours in that attic, mesmerized by the way sunlight filtered through the tiny gaps, painting patterns on the floor. It was my refuge, my secret world.

That night, however, the attic felt different—less like a sanctuary and more like a threshold to something unseen.

A sound broke through the rain. A scratching—soft at first, then growing insistent. My heart pounded. At first, I tried to dismiss it as the wind or a restless animal, but something about it felt deliberate. The scratching would pause, then start again in the same spot, almost as if… it was trying to get my attention.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin, my ears straining against the rain. The rhythm of my breath quickened as the scratching continued. It was neither rushed nor aggressive but persistent, methodical, as though something—or someone—was testing the boundaries between us.

A chill ran down my spine. I thought of my grandmother’s stories—tales of spirits that roamed the countryside, whispering to those who dared to listen. Could I be hearing one now?

Then, the scratching stopped.

Silence stretched between the raindrops.

And then, I heard it—a voice. Low, raspy, like the rustling of dry leaves. It wasn’t loud, but it echoed through the attic, wrapping around me. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable: longing. A yearning that sent shivers through my skin.

I held my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. Was it real? Or was my mind weaving ghosts from the storm?

Every part of me wanted to run—to dash down the ladder, past the darkened corners of our house, and into the safety of my mother’s arms. But I stayed. Frozen. Listening.

And just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

The attic returned to its usual stillness, the rain continuing its steady descent. But something had shifted. The air felt lighter, as if a presence had come and gone, leaving only an echo behind. I lay awake for hours, my body rigid with the weight of the unknown. I kept waiting for the voice to return, for the scratching to begin again, but the night slipped into dawn without another disturbance.

In the days that followed, I couldn’t stop thinking about that night. The scratching, the voice—none of it made sense, yet it felt so deliberate, so undeniable. Had something been trying to communicate with me? And if so, what had it wanted to say?

I considered telling my grandmother, hoping she might have an explanation, but I hesitated. Would she believe me? Or would she dismiss it as a child's imagination running wild?

Instead, I searched for answers in the places I knew best. I read old folktales, listened more closely to my grandmother's stories, and paid attention to the way the wind carried whispers through the trees. I began to wonder if moments like that night were not meant to be understood but simply experienced.

Looking back, I see that night as a turning point. It awakened something in me—a realization that the world is full of mysteries just beyond our perception. That the unseen is not always imaginary. That sometimes, the universe whispers in ways we don’t immediately understand.

Perhaps we are not meant to have all the answers. Perhaps some things are meant to remain as whispers in the rain—reminders that there is more to this world than what we can see.

Even now, when the rain pours and the wind stirs the trees, I remember that night in the attic. I remember the scratching, the voice, and the way my heart raced in the darkness. And I wonder—was it simply my imagination, or was I granted a fleeting glimpse into something far greater than myself?

I may never know for sure.

But what I do know is this: the unknown has a way of calling to us.

And if we dare to listen, we just might hear its whispers in the rain.