Rain Only Falls in Her Dreams

Rain Only Falls in Her Dreams

by[javid khan]

Nora hadn't slept properly in over a year. Not real sleep—not the kind that wraps you up in something weightless and whole. Doctors called it chronic insomnia. Her therapist called it grief manifesting. Her father, on the rare days he tried, called it "just a phase."

But Nora knew better. Sleep had become a stranger since her mother vanished without a trace.

She was thirteen when it happened. Her mother had stepped out into the night wearing her red raincoat—despite the forecast being clear. “Just going for a walk,” she’d said. “Storm’s coming. You’ll see.”

She never came back.

Now at seventeen, Nora had stopped trying to make peace with the silence that came afterward. She had memorized every police report, every news headline, every theory that tried to explain the unexplainable. But none of it felt right. It was like the world had folded in on itself that night and swallowed her mother whole.

Then, six nights ago, Nora dreamed.

And in the dream, it rained.

She hadn’t dreamed in so long that she almost didn’t recognize the sensation. It was soft. Wet. Her feet touched cobblestones slick with moss. The air was thick and violet, humming with a low static. The rain fell in slow motion—fat drops that echoed when they hit the ground, like distant footsteps returning home.

The city was unfamiliar, and yet, deeply known. It looked like no place she had seen, but felt like one she’d forgotten. Streetlamps buzzed with a greenish glow. Abandoned bicycles leaned against walls covered in ivy. A glass elevator rose from the middle of a flooded square.

She wandered for what felt like hours before she saw her.

Her mother.

Standing beneath a blue awning, just outside what looked like an old bookstore, wearing the same red raincoat she’d vanished in.

She looked… older. Tired. But she smiled when she saw Nora, like she’d been waiting. Like this had all been her plan.

“Come inside,” she said.

Nora opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. She followed instead.

Inside, the bookstore was warm, dusty. Books lined the walls in uneven towers. A kettle hissed on a small burner near the back. Her mother turned to her with eyes that no longer held fear—only sorrow.

“You’re not supposed to be here yet,” her mother said softly.

Nora tried again to speak, but it was like the dream held her tongue underwater.

Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder. “But I’m glad you found the door.”

And then—Nora woke.

Back in her room. 2:41 a.m. No rain outside. Only the usual dry hum of the streetlights buzzing through the window.

She told no one about the dream.

The next night, she returned.

Each time she slept, the city returned with her. The rain was always falling. Sometimes heavy, sometimes light. It pooled in gutters, dripped from rooftops, painted every surface with a sheen of memory. And her mother was always there—sometimes reading, sometimes walking, sometimes waiting for her on a bench near the glass elevator.

Nora began to live for the nights.

School, meals, conversations—they became shadows of things that no longer mattered. She counted the hours until she could see the rain again. She stopped fighting sleep. Stopped fearing the dark. For the first time in years, she welcomed it.

Her mother spoke more with each visit.

“You’ll only remember pieces when you wake,” she warned. “It’s how this place protects itself.”

“Where is this?” Nora asked once, her voice finally free in the dream.

Her mother didn’t answer. She just gestured to the sky, where the clouds spun in slow circles like the inside of a clock, endlessly rewinding.

“Is this where you live now?” Nora asked.

Her mother nodded. “It’s not a punishment. It’s a choice.”

“Can I stay?”

A pause. Then a shake of her head. “Not yet.”

On the sixth night, everything changed.

The rain was heavier than ever before. Thunder rolled through the sky like the growl of a great beast. Her mother stood on the edge of a canal, eyes closed, arms outstretched.

“It’s time for you to let me go,” she said, not opening her eyes.

“I don’t want to,” Nora whispered.

“I know,” her mother said. “But grief isn’t something you carry. It carries you, until you’re ready to walk again.”

Nora stepped forward. “Will I see you again?”

Her mother opened her eyes—bright and wet and beautiful. “When you’re ready to remember, not just mourn.”

The storm swallowed the city in a roar of sound.

She woke to sunlight.

Not a dream.

Real, golden sunlight, pouring through her window. Her pillow damp with sweat. Her heart racing.

She walked outside barefoot. The sky was blue. The air smelled of summer. She hadn’t noticed how long it had been since she felt warm.

At the edge of the driveway, there was a single red umbrella leaning against the mailbox. No note. No footprints.

Just the umbrella.

She looked up.

Still no clouds.

But deep in her bones, she knew: it had rained.

And somewhere in a city that only lived in dreams, her mother was finally free.

So was she.