Adriana Crăciun

When the Rain Spoke Back

Photograph: BIJOO VYAAS

On the edge of a small mist-veiled village, where the trees whispered secrets and the rivers hummed lullabies, lived a girl named Elara, born with the gift of understanding animals. She spoke sparrow, understood the grumbles of badgers, and laughed in the rhythm of dolphin clicks. But when it rained, her gift deepened. The raindrops carried voices too—memories, moods, and melodies no human could normally hear.
Rain was rare in the village. But whenever it came, Elara walked barefoot through the woods, arms wide, face upturned, listening. Each drop on her skin soaked into her like ink on parchment. Sadness. Longing. Joy. She felt it all. Sometimes the rain brought the sorrow of a grieving fox; other times, the laughter of bear cubs playing in a storm far away. And sometimes, the rain echoed her own loneliness back to her.
One day, a strange downpour swept in—sharp, heavy, angry. The animals were silent. Even the trees bristled. Elara heard something different in the drops: a call. Not from beast or bird, but from something older, buried deep beneath the forest. Something forgotten.
Drawn by the storm’s mood, she followed the rain’s whisper to a hollow stone, covered in moss. As her fingers traced its grooves, a thousand animal voices roared into her mind, not in fear—but in warning.
The rain was not just weather. It was memory, spilled from the sky. And someone, or something, was waking it up.
Elara took a breath. The storm wasn’t over—and neither was her story.
She stood at the stone, heart thudding like a drum in a forgotten song. The air buzzed—static, alive—as the rain grew colder, harder. It didn’t fall; it pressed, like fingers on her shoulders. The voices surged again—rabbits, owls, wolves, even the wind—it all whispered the same word: "Keeper."
Elara didn’t know what it meant. Not yet. But she knew this: she was the only one hearing the storm's true message.
The next morning, the rain had stopped, but its echo clung to her skin. The forest was quiet in a way it had never been. Not peaceful. Expectant. The animals watched her from the shadows, their usual chatter hushed. Even the crows—gossipy creatures that they were—sat in eerie silence.
She sought answers in the grove where the oldest tree stood—a massive, twisted oak known as Hollowroot. The squirrel who lived there, a sharp-tongued elder named Bristle, hopped onto her shoulder.
"You’ve stirred something, girl," he said, voice rasping like dry leaves. "The rain remembers. It woke the Deep Memory. You’re tied to it now."
"What is the Deep Memory?" Elara asked.
"It’s what came before us," he replied. "Before nests and dens and fences. Before language split. Before animals forgot how to speak to people like you."
Something moved beneath the soil, just for a moment. A shiver that didn’t belong to the wind.
Elara realized her gift wasn’t just about talking to animals. It was about remembering with them. Feeling the forgotten. And now the rain had marked her.
That night, she dreamt of a place beneath the forest—roots like ribs, stones like teeth, and something sleeping between them, wrapped in sorrow and thunder. It pulsed with memory, with all the moods the rain had ever carried.
She woke up drenched, though her room was dry.
And she knew: next time the rain came, she wouldn’t just listen.
She’d speak back.