The rain on the roof was the first sound Saruke Ame ever knew. It hammered down on the night he was born, so loud it drowned out everything else in the small hospital.
His father, Saruke Kisko, stood in the hallway. He was a big man, built solid from years of loading crates at the warehouse. He stared at the closed door, his hands clenched at his sides.
Inside, his wife, Yue Ling, was quiet. She had come from Bai, a place of endless white winter. Her hair was the color of snow, and her skin was just as pale. She didn't scream like in the movies. She just breathed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting.
Their two other children were down the hall. Seven-year-old Yurika held five-year-old Leu's hand. Leu was adopted, his skin darker than theirs, but right now his face held the same scared look. Yurika didn't let go.
When the doctor came out, Kisko jumped. "A boy," the doctor said, tired but smiling. "Everyone's fine."
Kisko's shoulders slumped with relief.
They let Yurika and Leu come in. Yue Ling lay in the bed, looking small, but she was smiling. In her arms was a tiny bundle. The baby had a head of dark hair, like Kisko's, but his skin was shockingly pale, like his mother's.
Yue Ling looked from the baby to the window, where the rain streaked the glass. "In my homeland," she whispered, her voice rough but sure, "this sound is called 'Ame'. Let's name our child Ame."
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Ame grew fast.
He was walking at two months, a wobbling march around the small living room of their rented house. He said his first word—"light"—at four months, pointing at the bulb overhead. He remembered everything. Where his toy block was hidden. The tune to the commercial that played at six. The face of the mailman who came on Tuesdays.
He was one year old in 2020, a solid little boy with his father's strong frame wrapped in his mother's white skin. He didn't cry much.
One night, after his bath, Ame walked over to where Kisko was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at a bill. Ame didn't reach for him. He just stood there until his father looked down.
"Story," Ame said.
Kisko sighed, put the paper down, and lifted his son onto his lap. "What story?"
"That story," Ame said. His voice was clear, without a baby's slur. "The one you telled me yesterday."
Kisko thought for a minute. He told a story his own grandfather had told him, one he'd never planned to tell a one-year-old. It was about a king who started with nothing. He fought and schemed and conquered until he ruled everything. But when he was old, a sickness took him. Lying in his huge bed, surrounded by gold and servants, the king realized it was all for nothing. The power, the land, the fear he'd created—it meant less than nothing because he was about to be gone. He died with that empty feeling in his chest.
Kisko finished. The room was quiet. He figured Ame had fallen asleep.
"Papa," came the small voice. "Does everyone die?"
Kisko felt a chill. "Yes, son. One day."
"Why?"
"It's… just how it is. But good people go to a good place after. You don't need to be scared."
Ame was silent for a long time. Then he said, "If being gone makes it meaningless, then being gone is wrong."
Kisko laughed, but it was a strange, thin sound. He patted Ame's back. "You talk like an old man. Time for sleep."
He tucked Ame into the small crib in the corner of the room. The boy's eyes stayed open, reflecting the streetlight from the window.
Ame lay there and thought about the king. The king had figured out the problem at the very end, when he could do nothing about it. That was stupid. Ame had figured it out now. The solution was simple.
If dying made your whole life pointless, then you just couldn't die.
It wasn't a hope. It wasn't a dream. In the dark, quiet mind of the rain child, it was the only logical answer. A fact, waiting to be made true.
Down the hall, Yurika and Leu were already asleep. Yue Ling was sewing a button on one of Kisko's shirts. Kisko stared at the bill in his hands, but he wasn't seeing the numbers.
Outside, the Yun Mountains were dark shapes against a darker sky. The town slept.