From the open fields, Rain followed the wind toward a shape rising on the horizon - a busy, bustling city. Tall buildings stood close together, their windows shining like mirrors.
When Rain arrived, he slid down glass walls in long silver streaks. He tapped gently on windows high above the streets. Far below, cars hissed through wet roads, their lights glowing in the puddles he left behind.
Children splashed and laughed in the water at the edge of the sidewalks, while grown‑ups hurried by, holding newspapers or bags over their heads. Street vendors pulled tarps over their stalls, but still called out to passing customers.
Rain noticed how his drops cleaned dust from the air, cooled the heavy heat between the buildings, and carried tiny bits of leaves and litter into the drains. Even here, surrounded by noise and motion, he could help in quiet ways.
A busker played guitar under an awning, his voice carrying into the damp air. People stopped for a moment, listening. The city felt softer under the rain - less hurried, a little more connected.
Rain understood then that his purpose wasn't only in wild mountains or quiet farms. He belonged in the heart of the city too, making things just a little better, even if most people never noticed.