Forgotten Things

The rain had settled into a rhythm now — a quiet, endless hum, as if the world itself were breathing softly. Edna watched it with half-lidded eyes, her reflection faint in the glass. The edges of things — the chair, the window frame, the urn — seemed to waver in and out of focus, as though they too were unsure of where they belonged.

Each raindrop called forth a memory, and each one slipped away almost as quickly as it came.

There was the sound of piano keys — her piano, the upright one Henry had bought secondhand. She could almost feel the smoothness of the ivory under her fingertips, smell the faint scent of lemon polish. She played then, every evening after dinner. Sometimes Henry sang, off-key and smiling, until they were both laughing too hard to finish the song.

Plink. A raindrop slid down the glass. The piano faded.

Another memory took its place — the garden. Her roses, stubborn things, never bloomed quite right after that late frost. Henry had said it was fine, that the wildflowers suited them better anyway. She could see him now, on his knees in the mud, planting marigolds in the cold spring drizzle, muttering to himself about color and symmetry. His hair stuck to his forehead. She had loved him most when he looked like that — foolish and human and real.

Tap. Another drop, another ripple through time.

Now she was a child again, watching rain puddle in the dirt road outside her mother’s house. Her small hand pressed against the cold glass, tracing the paths the water made. She remembered wondering where the drops went when they reached the ground. Did they vanish? Did they travel somewhere else — a place where all the forgotten things went?

The thought made her smile, faintly, as the present drifted back into view.

The urn caught her eye again, sitting small and unassuming on the table. “You’re part of the rain now, Henry,” she whispered. “Washed clean of everything that ever mattered.”

She leaned her head against the windowpane, feeling the chill seep into her temple. The glass felt alive — vibrating gently with the pulse of the rain, or maybe with her own heartbeat.

More memories surfaced. A road trip to the coast — the smell of salt, the taste of taffy, Henry’s hand on hers as they watched the waves crash against the cliffs. She remembered a hotel room with thin curtains that never quite closed, sunlight spilling across their tangled legs.

Then the years came faster — a house they never bought, a letter that was never sent, a birthday she forgot, a promise he didn’t keep. All of them shimmered briefly before being swept away, each one a raindrop sliding down the glass.

The storm outside softened, its fury giving way to a gentle drizzle. The world beyond the window was washed pale — gray streets, silver trees, puddles trembling under the last few drops.

Edna closed her eyes.

For a long moment, she drifted — between then and now, between what was and what never came to be. Her breathing matched the rhythm of the rain.

Somewhere deep in her fading mind, she imagined herself walking through that rain, each droplet she touched unfolding into a moment from her life. She walked slowly, barefoot, through the soft downpour, gathering each memory in her hands — the laughter, the sorrow, the love — until all of them dissolved together into a single, quiet hush.

And in that hush, there was peace.