Winter rain isn’t loud.
It falls slowly, as if listening to itself dissolve in midair.
Each droplet — thin, wandering —
touches the cold pavement softly, then disappears,
like an old memory that no longer has a place to return to.
I walk down a familiar street,
the smell of rain mingling with exhaust, damp earth,
and somewhere nearby, the faint warmth of baked bread
from a small shop at the corner.
The whole city is washed in a silvery gray,
and my heart, too, seems to carry the same hue.
You once said, “Winter rain makes people miss each other more.”
I laughed then, not believing you.
Now I understand —
some kinds of longing only come when the air turns cold,
and the heart grows quiet enough to hear itself breathe.
I look up at the sky.
No one beside me now,
only the rain,
falling like letters without a recipient.
But perhaps,
winter rain isn’t sad —
it’s only teaching us how to stand still,
to realize that even when everything has passed,
we still know how to feel,
and still know how to remember.
