The Sound of Rain

The rain had been falling since dawn.

Fatima watched it from the bus window — long silver lines running down the glass, blurring the world outside. Her hands were wrapped around a paper cup of tea that had already gone cold.

She was on her way back to her old town — a place she hadn’t seen in seven years. The same place she had left behind after one fight too many.

This time, she wasn’t going back for work, or weddings, or anyone’s birthday.

She was going back because her younger brother, Amir, had called her last week.

“Ammi misses you,” he said softly.

“She won’t say it, but she does.”

Fatima had sighed. “Amir, you know it’s complicated.”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be,” he replied.

When she reached home, the smell of wet earth and wood smoke hit her first — memories she had tried to forget.

The front door was slightly ajar. Inside, the old living room looked the same, only smaller.

Her mother sat near the window, knitting, the same way she used to when Fatima was a child. Her hair was grayer now, her hands slower, but her eyes — those sharp, tired eyes — were still the same.

She looked up.

For a few moments, neither spoke. The sound of rain filled the space between them.

Finally, her mother said, “You came.”

Fatima nodded. “Amir called.”

Her mother didn’t smile, but something softened in her face. “He worries too much.”

The first day passed quietly. The air between them was polite, cautious — like a truce that could break at any moment.

Fatima helped in the kitchen, making tea, chopping vegetables, pretending not to notice her mother’s small glances — the ones filled with both pride and pain.

That night, Fatima couldn’t sleep. She walked to the back porch and sat, watching the rain. The house felt like a memory she was walking through — familiar, but distant.

Then she heard a voice.

“You still like sitting in the rain,” her mother said softly behind her.

Fatima turned. “You used to scold me for it.”

Her mother smiled faintly. “I still might.”

They both laughed — quietly, awkwardly, but it was something.

After a while, her mother sat beside her. Neither said much. The rain spoke for them.

Then, after a long silence, her mother whispered, “Do you know why I was angry that day?”

Fatima looked down. “Because I left.”

Her mother shook her head slowly. “Because you left without saying goodbye.”

Fatima froze.

“I wasn’t angry you went,” her mother continued. “I was scared. You wanted to live your life — and I wanted to protect you. Maybe too much.”

The rain softened, a rhythm against the roof.

“I thought keeping you close meant keeping you safe,” she said. “But maybe peace means letting go — even of the people we love.”

Fatima felt her throat tighten. She had replayed their last fight for years — the shouting, the slammed door, the words she wished she could take back.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Her mother smiled — tired, forgiving. “I know.”

They sat in silence again, but this time, it was peaceful. The kind of silence that heals instead of hurts.

In the morning, Fatima made breakfast. The sunlight spilled into the kitchen, turning everything gold.

Her mother hummed softly — an old tune, one Fatima remembered from childhood.

When Amir came downstairs, he froze at the sight of them cooking together.

“Is this real?” he teased.

Fatima laughed. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

Her mother swatted him with a towel. “Eat your food before it gets cold.”

Later that afternoon, when Fatima left, the rain had stopped. The streets glistened.

Her mother walked her to the gate.

“Will you come again?” she asked.

Fatima smiled softly. “Yes. I think I will.”

Her mother reached out and pressed something into her hand — a small, silver locket.

“I kept this for you,” she said. “From the day you left.”

Fatima opened it. Inside was a tiny picture of the three of them — taken before everything had fallen apart.

She looked at her mother, tears welling up. “Thank you.”

Her mother just nodded, her eyes kind. “Go live, beta. And when it rains, remember — peace doesn’t always come loud. Sometimes it arrives quietly.”

On the bus ride back, Fatima rested her head against the window. The rain began again — soft, steady, peaceful.

She smiled, closing her eyes.

This time, it didn’t sound sad. It sounded like home.