When Rain Whispers

In the fog of morning murmurs, a train of gentle rain composed its symphony upon the rooftops. Somewhere beneath the soft percussion of drops, a conversation flickered to life. It began with a stranger's voice, low as the horizon.

"Tell me again why the stars fly south?" she asked, her silhouette misty and refracting light like the edges of a fairy tale. The response floated up like a secret unwinding in a candlelit room.

"Because they dream of oceans," he said, "oceans they have never seen." There was a pause, pregnant with unshared time, then a laugh—a ripple against the stillness.

Their dialogue, half-formed and at times resonating with an understanding known only in dreams, seemed to dance above the echoes of falling rain. She believed the world spun differently there, in the womb of clouds cushioning the earth as it lay in an endless reverie.

“Perhaps they seek the salt of forgotten memories,” he whispered, eyes tracking an unseen flight of stars scattered like seeds across a darkened sky. And there, amidst the waking drench, a pattern unraveled—the universe crop-circling its existential musings.

With the morning drumming a litany upon the panes, the duo vanished within the folds of mist and echo. Yet their semblance lingered—a hymn composed for wandering souls and raindrop symphonies.

Below, the water cradle around their words trembled gently, each ripple a promise unfulfilled, reaching out towards the farthest horizon, where dreams unfurl and create paths for stars to wander freely.