Ethan had a habit of walking in the rain.
Not because he liked getting wet, but because the rain washed everything away—memories, mistakes, and most importantly, questions that had no answers.
He carried a small leather notebook everywhere, scribbling thoughts he never shared. Thoughts about his sister, who had disappeared two years ago, and about the mother who had stopped calling him by his name and now only whispered apologies.
That evening, as the sky opened up in heavy sheets, Ethan found a letter pinned to the old oak tree by the park. No envelope. No name. Just the words:
"You think you've lost me, but sometimes lost means waiting."
He knew it was hers. He didn't know how. But he did.
Every memory came rushing back—the fights, the laughter, the last time he saw her in the living room, before everything broke. He hadn't cried in years, but standing there in the rain, he finally let the tears fall.
The rain didn't stop.
And neither did the past.