The poet who only wrote in the rain

Main Story

A small town where even the wind seemed to speak to his ear. At the end of the town, in a secluded corner of an old house, lived Aarav—a strange poet. He had no pen, no diary, no blank sheet of paper. He wrote only when the sky cried.

The strange thing was, Aarav did not love rain. Rather, he was deeply afraid of it. As a child, he lost his parents on a stormy night. But still, the words stored in his mind never wanted to come out under the dry sky. Like a strange curse.

Every raindrop was like a word hidden deep in his chest to him. His paper became the window glass. Invisible poems floating in the morning mist and the warmth of his breath would accumulate there—no one could see, only he could read.

A row of paper cranes inside the house. Each crane symbolized an unfinished poem. He would create them in the dead of night, his vocabulary would never run out, but not a single poem would be finished. It was as if his style was unfinished.

The children of the city believed that Aarav's cranes whispered and recited poems in the darkness of the night. Some would say that they would start flying around the house right at midnight. Aarav never denied these things. He would just smile softly and remain silent.

On a drizzly rainy afternoon, as the sky was turning from dark blue to gray, a wet note slipped under Aarav's door.

• "Your silence is also poetry, I want to know the storm where your words are born."

There was no name, no address on the letter. Just a dried flower and a few drops of water—like a rain horoscope.

Aarav stayed awake the whole night with the letter in his hand. Still like the raindrops that stopped outside the window. As soon as the dawn broke, he made a new paper crane—this time cutting a piece of that unknown note. He floated the crane outside the window in the dewy air. As if sending a signal somewhere—silently.

From then on, Aarav's writing seemed to gain a new life. With the rain, sounds came, but they no longer cried like before. Sometimes they laughed, sometimes they cried, sometimes they silently measured the depth of the sky.

He would write—

"Rain is no longer just a fear, because your letter has arrived, it is now just a blessing"

He would imagine that strange girl—who had come without any identity to find the answer to his silence. He seemed to be writing invisible poems on her window with his finger—this time with a little bit of hope.

The blue of the sky turned gray, and the rain fell again. On a dark afternoon, the girl really came.

Rain of sadness in her eyes, a wet umbrella in her hand, a surprising silence on her lips.

"Can I read the poem written in the fog on your window?"—she asked, as if she had been hiding this question in her heart for a long time.

Aarav just nodded in agreement. Words were unnecessary.

From that day on, every time Akash cried, they would sit side by side near an ancient window—immersed in the depths of silence. That silence was their most meaningful conversation, their most emotional poem.

The girl's name is Neelima. She herself used to write, but the noise of the city stole her pen. She was wandering in search of silence, when she heard about Aarav—the poet who wrote only in the rain, but none of her writings were ever published.

Aarav and Neelima formed a strange understanding—beyond words, deep in feelings.

The city dwellers noticed that Aarav's cranes now sparkled with a strange light at night.

Some say—that was the light of love.

Some say—poetry no longer hides in the darkness.

According to some—two souls are now writing together in the void.

But the truth was completely different—

Aarav was no longer waiting for the rain.

Even on sunny days, he would write—the golden light of the sun, the smell of the stilts floating in the air, Neelima's silent presence next to the tea.

Rain is no longer a cause for fear.

A sweet memory.

Maybe an old tune, played on a dusty piano—which sounds even more beautiful in a broken voice.

One winter morning, Neelima brought Aarav a new diary. On the first page it was written—

"Let words be born in the sunlight, let rain remain only as memories"

From that day on, Aarav started writing in all seasons, in all weathers, in all feelings. His words are no longer just of fear, but now they are of love, hope, memory, joy, pain—documents of all human feelings.

The cranes that once whispered in the darkness, now they are flying around the city. People say—are they the messengers of poetry.

End of the story

To tell the truth, a poet is not born—he is made by time, pain, and a wonderful and beautiful blow.

The greatest poem of a poet is—his own transformation.

He who no longer sits waiting for rain,

he himself becomes the sky.

Where both rain and sun coexist.

Aarav is now the most beloved poet in the city. His poems are no longer written on windows, they fly far and wide.

And Neelima? She too has found her lost pen.

Now they write together—sitting by the window of an old house.

Sometimes in the rain, sometimes in the sun, sometimes just in silence.

Because, poetry is ultimately not just written on paper—

It comes alive in the relationship of two souls,

in the union of rain and sun,

between fear and courage.

💬 Dear reader:

"Is there a fear in your life that could one day become your greatest strength? Like Aarav, do you also want to conquer a 'rain'?"