Rain drifted inland until he saw a small village tucked between green hills. The houses had roofs of red tile and narrow chimneys that gave soft curls of smoke.
He fell gently, drop by drop, onto the rooftops. The tiles darkened under his touch. In the gardens, beans and herbs lifted their leaves happily, drinking him in.
In the village square, people moved between stalls of fruit, bread, and cloth. Some paused to pull their hoods up; others kept walking, their baskets growing damp. Children laughed and held their hands out, trying to catch him before the drops could fall to the ground.
Rain slipped down into the cracks of the cobblestone, washing away dust that had gathered there. Every corner he touched seemed a little fresher, a little cleaner.
Here, he felt something gentle - the comfort of being part of a routine. These people expected him now and then, and welcomed what he brought.
When the clouds began to drift again, Rain rose slowly back into them, carrying the village's quiet warmth along to his next stop.