The rain began before midnight.  

It moved softly over the rooftops of Hollow Creek, gathering in the eaves like a secret being retold.  

Emily sat awake on her bed, knees drawn close, eyes fixed on the window.  

Lightning flashed once. The room blinked into existence, then vanished again.  

She could hear the house remembering—timbers shifting, pipes groaning, the low whistle in the chimney.  

Ten years gone and it still breathed the same.  

Her phone lit on the nightstand. Grace’s name.  

She didn’t open the message.  

“Still awake?” she whispered.  

The words left her mouth in steam.  

She turned onto her side. The blanket slid to the floor.  

Her father’s photograph leaned against a book. The glass reflected the candle flame in small tremors.  

“Did you know he’d sign it?” she asked the dark.  

Thunder rolled, soft at first, then closer.  

She shut her eyes. But closing them never worked; it only brought back the café—the glow of the sign, the smell of wet pavement, Liam standing there with both hands in his pockets, saying nothing because he had already said everything.  

“Say something,” she had said.  

“You already decided.”  

“I didn’t want to.”  

“You did.”  

The sound of it still cut through sleep.  

She pulled the blanket back up, but warmth refused to stay.  

Rain struck harder, the steady rhythm of a heart refusing to quit.  

When she finally drifted off, the dream began at the lake.  

The water was black glass.  

The willow bent low, its branches heavy with rain.  

Liam stood beneath it, soaked through, looking at her as though time were a trick they could undo by staring hard enough.  

“You came back,” he said.  

“I never left,” she said.  

“You stopped writing.”  

“There was nothing left to say.”  

“There always is.”  

“Not for us.”  

He took a step closer. Lightning turned the world white.  

In that blink, he looked exactly as she remembered—wet hair, open mouth, eyes full of something she never learned to name.  

“It’s still raining,” he said.  

“It always is.”  

She reached for him. Her fingers met only cold.  

She woke with a start.  

The storm was louder, the candle nearly out.  

The clock read 3:14.  

She swung her legs to the floor. Bare feet touched the cold wood.  

Wind pressed against the window. The latch rattled.  

She crossed the room and set her hand on the frame. The chill ran through her bones.  

Outside, the garden was a blur, the lake invisible, but she could feel it waiting in the dark.  

She whispered, “Do you still hear me?”  

Only the rain replied.  

The sound filled everything—  

the walls, the ceiling, her lungs.  

She sat there, hand on the glass, until the thunder rolled away.  

Then, somewhere in the distance, the church bell rang once.  

It shouldn’t have. The bell had been broken for years.  

She drew in a breath and held it.  

The air tasted of dust and rain.  

Her reflection stared back at her, eyes bright as lightning faded.  

“Tomorrow,” she said to the window.  

“Tomorrow, I’ll go.”  

The storm swallowed her voice.

Across town, Liam sat on his mother’s porch with the lights out.  

The rain had turned the street into a river of mirrors.  

He watched his reflection shatter with every drop.  

The old radio on the table hissed with static. He adjusted the dial, searching for a station that hadn’t given up yet.  

A faint tune emerged—grainy, broken.  

It was the melody she used to hum while sketching the mill.  

He smiled without meaning to.  

“You still hum it, don’t you?” he said.  

The thunder answered for her.  

He poured coffee from a dented thermos, the steam curling into the dark.  

The cup trembled in his hand.  

He set it down and reached for the letter he had never sent. The paper was soft with age, the ink faded but legible.  

*If you ever come back, I’ll still be here. If you don’t, I’ll keep the lights on anyway.*  

He folded it again, tucking it into his jacket.  

The sound of rain against the awning grew heavier, slower, as if listening.  

“Goodnight, Em,” he said.  

The wind carried his voice down the street.  

In her house, Emily felt something shift. The air tightened, like an unseen thread being pulled.  

She sat back on the bed and opened the drawer of her father’s desk.  

Inside lay a stack of notes, maps, and one sealed envelope with her name.  

Her hands shook as she broke the seal.  

Inside was a single page.  

*The truth was never buried, only postponed.*  

She read it three times, lips moving silently.  

Lightning flashed again. The room seemed smaller, the shadows nearer.  

She folded the letter and pressed it against her chest.  

“Tomorrow,” she whispered.  

“Tomorrow I’ll find out.”  

Outside, the rain began to slow.  

Liam leaned back in his chair, eyes half closed.  

The storm had lost its voice; only the drip from the eaves remained.  

He thought of the lake, the willow, the sound of her laugh when it used to echo through the café.  

He whispered her name once more, barely sound.  

Across the distance, Emily whispered his at the same time.  

Neither knew.  

The wind passed between them, carrying both names through the last curtain of rain.  

When the storm finally ended, Hollow Creek lay silver and still.  

The first light of dawn slid over the rooftops, finding its way through every crack the night had opened.  

Emily closed her eyes.  

For the first time in years, the silence after rain didn’t feel empty.  

It felt like a beginning.