Rain Fall

• Amber Zhao, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2022

Drip. Drip. Drip.
Rain fell in a hypnotic rhythm on Andrea’s window as she watched other drivers’ reactions to the traffic winding down the neighbourhood. She found it fascinating to compare brands, and more so to wonder who inhabited the cars. Nothing would come close, though, to the pleasure of idle observation; their expressions revealed more than they’d like to think.
Some silently raged, their cars humming like hornet nests. A few tapped on their phones. But most were lulled by the steady beat of the rain, held captive by its gentle rhythm. Each separated by their bubbles of metal and glass, lost in their little dramas, together yet estranged from each other. Looking at them, she had the same sense of alienation as when she moved through crowds of commuters. They washed through the train station like a river of black-and-white photographs, and caught in their flow, she was nothing. Yet another faceless face, another nameless name.
She didn’t like riding the train, but it was the only way she could get to Willowbank.
Yesterday had been the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day she’d begun slaving at the school every evening, Monday through Friday, fifty weeks a year. She would arm herself with the vacuum cleaner and nothing but the sheer, unbreakable resolve that kept her from reaching rock bottom. One day, she told herself, she would escape her cramped apartment and dead-end job. With each gleaming length, she held on to the hope as if it was the only thing keeping herself together.
One day, she might have better than this.
She clung to hope for solace every single time. She found the will to keep on with quiet determination, swallowing down her feelings of smallness and insignificance. But years of fighting had made her lonely and despairing. She had nothing more of herself to give.
Andrea stared at the bleak view she’d passed for twenty-five goddamn years, seeking something that proved life was still worth living. And a small, surprised smile bloomed on her lips.
The clouds had parted for the smallest crack of the sun to emerge, painting everything living gold. A little awestruck, Andrea gazed at the windfall of light – a glimpse of the ferocious beauty of the everyday – and felt the smallest unfurling in her heart. She thought the rosy, swelling warmth felt like surprise. It could be joy.
The clouds moved; the chink of light was obscured. But a rainbow still arched over the clouds.
She unrolled the window when the cars moved on and reached her fingers out. The rain felt invigoratingly cool on her palms, the air bracing and crisp. It brimmed with the offerings of a vibrant life, yet to be lived.
The sun had shown her how glorious the world was, despite everything.
And though it was gone, a part of her felt like it would always be there.