A Promise Woven in Rain

The rain started before dawn, soft at first, like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to fall. By the time the sun tried to rise, the streets were already shining with puddles, and the air smelled of wet earth and something older—like memories you almost forgot.

I stood under the small tin roof of my father’s old shop, holding a paper bag that was starting to get damp. Inside was the letter. The one I had been carrying for three years, waiting for the right day to deliver.

Today was that day.

Mira’s house was only ten minutes away if I walked fast. I could already picture her porch, the cracked steps, the little wind chime that sounded like laughter in the wind. But I didn’t walk fast. My shoes splashed through puddles, slow and heavy, because once I gave her the letter, I wouldn’t be able to take it back.

It had been three years since the accident. Three years since her brother—my best friend—was gone. I still remembered the last time I saw him. We were sitting on the hood of my car, watching the rain, the same way we’d done a hundred times. He had handed me an envelope, sealed and neat.

“Give this to Mira,” he’d said, “but not yet. Wait until she’s ready.”

I had asked him how I would know when she was ready.

“You’ll know,” he said, with that half-smile he always had, like he knew something I didn’t.

And then the accident happened. And he was gone.

I had kept the envelope ever since, waiting for a sign. But no sign had ever come. Only days, one after another, all blurring together. Until last week, when I saw her at the market. She had been laughing at something the old fruit seller said, her head tilted back, eyes shining even in the heat. And I thought—maybe this is it. Maybe she’s ready. Or maybe I am.

The rain grew heavier, drumming on rooftops and running down the gutters like silver threads. When I reached her porch, I stood there, dripping, staring at the door. My hand trembled as I knocked.

It opened slowly.

She was there, barefoot, wearing a sweater that was too big for her. Her hair was loose, a little messy, like she had just woken up. She looked at me for a long moment before smiling in that small, polite way people smile at neighbors.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey.” I cleared my throat. “I… have something for you.”

I held out the bag. She frowned a little but took it, peeking inside. Her eyes widened when she saw the envelope. Her fingers brushed the paper like she was afraid it might disappear.

“This is from him, isn’t it?” she whispered.

I nodded.

She didn’t open it right away. She just held it against her chest, staring at the rain falling beyond the porch. For a while, we both stood there in silence, listening to the sound.

Then she opened it.

The letter was short—only a few lines in his messy handwriting. I knew what it said because I had read it once, on a night when missing him felt like too much to carry.

If the rain is falling when you read this, remember it’s the same rain we’ve always shared. I’m not gone. I’m just on the other side of it, waiting. Live for me, laugh for me. I love you, little sister.

Her hands trembled as she read it. A tear slid down her cheek, then another, and then she laughed—a soft, broken laugh—like something inside her had cracked open.

“Thank you,” she said.

I didn’t know if she was talking to me or to him. Maybe both.

We sat on the porch for a long time after that, side by side, not saying much. The rain wrapped around us, soft but endless, like a promise kept.

When I finally stood to leave, she caught my hand.

“Stay a little longer,” she said. “Just until the rain stops.”

But the rain didn’t stop. And maybe that was the point.