Still Rain
By Julian Denney
The mountains were adumbrated by the blue fog of rain—clattering dishes and yells interjecting the air of would-be peace. Very seldom did precipitation come in the warm months; the summers were dry, and the winter opted to leave snow drifts reaching up to her shoulders. Even with her window open and screen taken out, the warmth of the rain barely grazed her small hands where they grasped the frame, falling droplets being obstructed by the dangling eave.
Finally, she accepted defeat, creeping away from her perch and to her bedroom door. It creaked as it opened, the hinges wearing from decades of use prior. The sounds of screaming children and bickering parents became clearer as she stepped into the hallway. It was relatively easy to slip out unnoticed. Everyone was preoccupied with their own problems and interests: a red truck, an argument for who gets the blue one, why they were behind on bills again, or the fact she’d forgotten to let the chickens out of the coop. She ducked behind the couch to slip on her shoes, grabbing a little camera in lieu of a raincoat.
The entryway door clicked shut quietly, once again muffling the noises of the house. The faint smell of pets and candles was washed out from her senses, replaced with wet grass and blooming flowers. The pitter-patter of rain accompanied each footstep as she finally ducked out from beneath the eave, droplets of rain dampening her clothes and flattening the frizz of her hair.
She never had a plan when she left the house. There was rarely merit to leaving in her eyes, no matter how bad she wanted to; she’d explored every inch of land for miles around, and the only other life was the ranch animals and owners. While she’d once taken joy in exploring, she began to simply dwell in the empty homes until whatever conflict in her own had calmed. The rain made everything different; it obscured the views she was familiar with, mystifying what would otherwise be ordinary. It revitalized the allure of nature, decorating leaves with dew drops and putting new colors in the sky. Her camera was barely enough to capture the views she found along hidden pathways, a small digital screen struggling to keep up with the shutter click. It made her feel less alone—like someone was experiencing the wonder alongside her.
Every creek she passed was rushing with the weight of snowmelt and rainfall, roots of reeds clinging to the dirt walls lining them. She’d been scared of crocodiles in the water when she was younger, far more afraid of impossible hypotheticals than the reality of losing footing in the deep ends of it. Either way, she kept her distance from it en route to the hidden forests by the river. It was one of the only places she knew others wouldn’t find her to continue disrupting her silence, although she still found herself wishing for someone to come with her. The closest she’d ever gotten was her long-passed dog.
By the time she chose to begin the trip back, she’d amassed a small gallery of photos, one for each pitstop: the split of the road between a pasture and another empty house, the bridge, and the pond where beavers had dammed up water. Throughout each grainy picture, the clouds gradually cleared, starting from above the mountains and reaching one of the far-off pastures across the bridge. Already, she could feel the drops lessen against her skin, a gauge of how much longer it would last—15 or so minutes, at best. It only took ten to arrive back home.
As the final beads of water came to fall against the sidewalk and the sun overtook the clouds, she, at last, began to go through each picture, admiring each moment as if she hadn’t witnessed it herself just minutes before. Every scene, even those obstructed by rain on the lens or the shakiness of her excited hands, was not only flawless but eternalized. Even from upon her front step, with muffled yells and dry clothes, she swore she could still hear the rain pitter-pattering around her.