Falling Rain

The rain deepened its rhythm, tapping against the window like the slow, patient ticking of a clock that no longer cared for time. Edna’s gaze followed one droplet as it slid down the glass, weaving between its brothers before vanishing at the sill. She smiled faintly.

“Just like me,” she murmured.

A faint scent of lilac drifted through her mind — Henry’s cologne, or perhaps the perfume she used to wear on Sundays. She saw him for a moment, tall and smiling, holding a basket of wet laundry under the eaves while she hung the sheets. The air was clean then, the world young. She could almost hear the wind in the cotton, snapping them bright and white against the line.

But as another drop struck the window, that memory dissolved, leaving behind only the sound of the rain.

She blinked. The laundry line was gone, replaced by the small, neat living room around her — the lamp with the crooked shade, the faint smell of dust and old upholstery.

A flash — a wedding day now, sunlight glittering off the borrowed veil, Henry’s nervous grin as he fumbled the ring. Then another raindrop fell, and the church faded away.

Edna reached for the teacup on the table beside her. It was empty, but she lifted it anyway, holding it near her lips as if to sip. Somewhere, someone had told her to drink more water. Or was it tea? She couldn’t quite recall who.

Outside, a car passed by, its tires whispering through puddles. For a moment, she thought it was her father’s old Ford, coming up the drive to bring her home for supper. She could see the porch light shining through the storm, her mother standing in the doorway, apron bright against the dark.

Then the light flickered out.

The rain kept falling.

Edna set the cup down and leaned her head against the back of the chair. The glass blurred before her again — not from the rain this time, but from the fog creeping into her mind. Memories rose and fell like waves, each one shimmering briefly before sinking into the depths.

There was Henry laughing.
Then Henry coughing.
Then the urn.
Then nothing at all.

She folded her hands once more, feeling the tremor in her fingers. “Fireplace weather,” she said softly, almost to herself.

Beyond the window, thunder rumbled far away — a deep, rolling echo that seemed to come from another lifetime.

Edna smiled. Somewhere inside, a younger version of her danced barefoot in the rain, hair plastered to her cheeks, Henry chasing her through the puddles.

And when that vision, too, slipped away, she didn’t chase it.

She simply watched the rain — each drop a memory, each memory a moment — until all of them blended into a gentle, endless gray.