Rain heart

In a time when only one child was allowed, she was the extra one.

Her mother let her go without crying.

Tears might have softened the resolve.

She was given to a childless couple —

gentle, quiet souls who held her as if the world had shrunk to her alone.

They gave her something precious: a Rain Heart.

“Whenever your anger blazes or despair overwhelms,” they said,

“hold it close. It will rain for you, quenching the fire.”

She never needed it.

She met hardship with a steady hand,

her spirit sharp and unyielding,

like a blade that never leaves its sheath.

Years later, she encountered a woman who mirrored her in every feature —

her long-lost sister.

Blood reflected in a living mirror.

Then, she met her birth mother.

A fragile harmony seemed possible at last.

It was then she met him.

He was a silent grass, clinging to a wall,

weeping without sound.

Compassion struck her.

For the first time, responsibility weighed on her heart.

She would save him.

She believed in love.

She believed rain could nurture grass.

Ignoring the protests of all who loved her,

she left with him alone.

She did not take the Rain Heart.

They wandered the world,

learning language as they begged,

leaving no trace.

She bore a child of fire.

The fire-child burned bright and bold,

reflecting her own youthful courage.

The grass flourished, programs complete, structure strong.

She was drained.

Then came a child of water.

Silent, avoiding gaze,

as if evading an unseen sharpness.

She worried,

even asking the fire-child to coax water into speech.

Unexpectedly, it worked.

Yet the water-child burned even drier than fire,

ready to ignite at a spark.

When winds rose, the wall-grass no longer needed support.

The stronger the wind, the sharper it lashed,

whipping her face like a living whip.

She felt pain.

Her children felt pain.

Until one night, wind and fire intertwined,

and the water-child danced madly around the burning grass,

eyes alight with strange joy.

She remembered the Rain Heart.

She ran back to the foster parents.

But after years of moving,

its whereabouts were lost.

She wondered:

If she had given it to him,

would the grass return to its tender beginnings?

In the dark, she looked again.

He was no longer on the wall.

He lay in a sea of flowers,

quietly drinking in fragrance and praise.

And then she understood —

He never needed rain.

He needed an audience.

She realized, while carrying the water-child,

she had already given the Rain Heart.

The water had traveled through worlds of scolding and violence,

breaking cycles in a near-mad way.

Not to destroy.

But to end.

At last, she understood —

the love of her foster parents,

the silence of her birth mother,

the persistence of her children,

all who had protected her —

they were the true Rain Heart.

All along, she thought the rain was for the grass.

But rain, she realized,

was for saving herself.