I drift silently, caught between the wispy embrace of gray clouds above and the unwavering surface of the Earth below. My name is like a whisper, a ripple of identity lost in the torrent — I am but a single drop among many.

Respectfully, I nod to the leaf below, sturdy and vast like an unsung hero. I land upon it, embracing my new home, but the transient glory is fleeting.

“What tales do you have, tiny drop?” the leaf muses, its voice rustling like whispers in the wind.

I tell of darkness and light, of candelights flickering against perpetual night, akin to a glowing aim suspended in the void. Where I fell from, it’s eternal twilight; where I’ll go, a splash in the grand kaleidoscope.

There was a candle lit beside a window once. Its light danced playfully, an imitation of warmth in a world caught in winter’s grasp. I wish to flicker like that — not for warmth, but for sheer endurance against the inky blackness. To glow until I fade, a story etched in tallow and wick.

If I could ask the wind, I would ponder on where my fellow drops had gone. United we fell, divergent we shall land, sometimes in companionable silence, other times like conversations interrupted by laughter.