Part 1: The First Rainy 🌧️
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| Windhollow Town |
Rainy days and a long time ago—it always begins like that. As if the sky remembers before he does. As if the clouds know the years that have passed and still return, heavy and slow, with the same wet whispers.
The boy, who was now a man, stood near the river, the old boots on his feet soaking at the edges. He could still hear it—the sound of water tumbling over stones, the same way it did when he was a boy. The river hadn’t changed, but everything else had.
There was sand at the edges of the path. Wet sand. It had a scent—one he hadn’t smelled in years. It was the smell of home, of monsoons, of running down alleys with soaked shirts and loud laughter. Of childhood summers and forgotten secrets buried under riverbanks.
He looked up. The town of windhollow—small, wind-swept, half-asleep—was waking slowly with the rain. The shutters creaked open one by one. The street vendors, those who still remained, pulled plastic over their carts and flicked the water from their benches. Nothing had changed in the bones of the place, but everything felt older. Maybe that’s what age did—not just to people, but to towns too.
The man adjusted the strap of his canvas bag and began walking.
Each step on the muddy road stirred a memory, and each turn of the wind pressed an old scent into his lungs. There was something in the silence of Velspur’s morning—only the sound of the river, the soft tapping of rain on old tin roofs, and his boots echoing between the shuttered shops.
He remembered that corner. That cracked step near the post office. He had fallen there once, chasing a red kite. He had torn his knee, but the kite had still flown.
He passed the chai shop that never changed its location, its walls now cracked, the benches shorter, perhaps just older. The man who served tea wasn’t there anymore. His son must have taken over—the same eyes, but without the smile.
A small boy peeked from behind the glass. The man smiled.And kept walking.
The streets were thinner than he remembered. The trees taller. The people fewer. But the wind—that same wind still came sweeping through, carrying the scent of damp sand and distant fires.
He paused under an awning near the bridge. From here, the entire river could be seen—broad, slow, endless. He used to come here every Sunday morning when he was little, with a notebook and a pencil he could barely sharpen. He used to draw the water. Never the town. Never people. Just the water and its movement.
There was a peace in that memory that made his throat tighten.And yet he said nothing. Just listened.The rain grew softer. The air cooler.
He didn’t return to windhollow to find anything. He came because there was nothing else calling him. The world had grown too loud. Too fast. Cities were glass cages. His work—a blur of meetings, screens, and deadlines—meant little now. He hadn’t written anything in years. Not even his name in dust.
And when he dreamed, he dreamed of Velspur.So, he came. Not to remember. Not to forget. Just… to walk.
A few schoolchildren passed him, laughing under one umbrella. They didn’t notice him. That felt right.
He turned into the street behind the temple—the same temple that rang its bells every evening. But it wasn’t time yet. Just the wind there now, playing with loose leaves and broken threads tied to the railing.
He closed his eyes. The sound of the river reached him again. The temple and the water. That had always been his rhythm.And for a moment, he felt… still.
Part 2: Streets That Whisper
He walked deeper into the town, past narrow lanes that curved like questions, through places that still held the fingerprints of years long gone. The names of the shops had changed, but the shape of the doors, the height of the steps, even the colors on the walls beneath the peeling paint—they remembered him.
Windhollow was not a town that forgot easily.
He passed by the old barber shop with its single chair. The mirror inside was cracked in one corner, the radio still playing softly in the background. The music was from the same station they used to listen to when he came here with his grandfather.
The boy who once sat there, legs too short for the floor, was gone. But he could still feel the vibration of the scissors, the smell of talcum, the warm voice of a man who spoke slowly, kindly.
The man didn’t go in. He just watched.And moved on.
There was a wall covered in vines now, where there used to be a candy seller. He smiled quietly, remembering the sugar stains on his fingers, the clink of coins in his pocket, the days when two rupees could buy a whole afternoon of happiness.
A rusted bicycle stood outside an abandoned house. He touched its handle gently, like a whisper. Then he kept walking.
People passed by. Some nodded. Some didn’t look. A few older faces seemed to pause, as if something about him rang a forgotten bell—but none said a word. That was fine. He wasn’t here to be known.
He was here to feel the silence.
The wind carried the smell of wet mud and faded incense. A cow walked lazily in the middle of the road, undisturbed by anything.
The school bell rang somewhere in the distance. That sound—sharp, clear, pulling time backwards. He used to hate that bell. It meant the end of recess, the end of games. Now it was just another note in the song of the town.
His feet led him to the edge of the fields, past the last houses, where the land opened into endless green, broken only by the river and the sky. It was raining softly again. The kind of rain that didn’t soak, just stayed like memory on the skin.
He found a bench under the peepal tree, worn down by time. It was here that he once wrote a story that no one read. It was about a bird who never left its nest, and a sky that kept waiting.
He sat, not as a boy with dreams, but as a man with dust in his heart.
He took out the small notebook he always carried, blank for years. He didn’t open it.
He just held it.
The river in the distance moved like it always did. Not faster. Not slower. It never asked for attention, but it was always there. Like time. Like loss. Like quiet truths.The wind picked up again. It brought the scent of old houses and distant rains.And something else.
A memory.
Part 3: The House That Waited
The memory came with the wind—a flicker, a sound, a smell. And suddenly, he was walking again, as if the road had tilted, leading him without asking.
Past the fields, back through the narrow lane where papaya trees leaned over broken walls, he turned left at the corner where the streetlight always blinked in the evening.
Then he saw it.
The house.
It hadn’t collapsed like he imagined. It had simply… aged. Like everything else. The gate still creaked when he pushed it open, the paint on the walls was chipped, and moss climbed slowly along the lower bricks. But it was still standing.
He stepped into the courtyard.
There was silence—deep, unbothered silence.
No footsteps. No voices. Just the soft hum of rain falling on leaves.
The boy who had once run across this courtyard barefoot, chasing paper boats and yelling into the wind—he was nowhere. But the house remembered him.
A crow cried from the rooftop.
He stepped under the shade of the roof and looked inside. The door was locked, but the windows were loose. Through the dusty glass, he could still see the shadows of furniture covered in old sheets. The swing in the corner. The lamp with a broken shade. The wooden shelf where he used to hide coins and crayons.
Everything had dust. But it had not been forgotten.
He sat on the old stone ledge in the veranda, tracing the lines on the floor with his fingers.
He used to sleep out here on hot nights. Counting stars. Listening to the river in the distance. Listening to the town breathe.
Once, when he was twelve, he had written his name on the pillar with a knife. He found the mark again—faint, but still there.
The wind blew softly. It carried the scent of wildflowers now. And drying leaves.
He closed his eyes.
And listened.
It was a strange thing—how silence could be louder than voices. How memory could wrap itself around your throat and not let go. How something you thought you had forgotten could return, just because the air changed.
He didn’t cry. There was no need. This wasn’t sadness. It was… something else. A quiet ache. A stillness.
He sat there for a long time.
Until the sky began to change.
The rain stopped. A soft orange glow lit the edges of the clouds. Birds returned to their trees. The street outside echoed with footsteps, carts rolling, distant conversations. Windhollow was waking into evening.
He stood up.
And left the house behind. Not forever. But for now.
Part 3: The House That Waited
The memory came with the wind—a flicker, a sound, a smell. And suddenly, he was walking again, as if the road had tilted, leading him without asking.
Past the fields, back through the narrow lane where papaya trees leaned over broken walls, he turned left at the corner where the streetlight always blinked in the evening.
Then he saw it.
The house.
It hadn’t collapsed like he imagined. It had simply… aged. Like everything else. The gate still creaked when he pushed it open, the paint on the walls was chipped, and moss climbed slowly along the lower bricks. But it was still standing.
He stepped into the courtyard.
There was silence—deep, unbothered silence.
No footsteps. No voices. Just the soft hum of rain falling on leaves.
The boy who had once run across this courtyard barefoot, chasing paper boats and yelling into the wind—he was nowhere. But the house remembered him.
A crow cried from the rooftop.
He stepped under the shade of the roof and looked inside. The door was locked, but the windows were loose. Through the dusty glass, he could still see the shadows of furniture covered in old sheets. The swing in the corner. The lamp with a broken shade. The wooden shelf where he used to hide coins and crayons.
Everything had dust. But it had not been forgotten.
He sat on the old stone ledge in the veranda, tracing the lines on the floor with his fingers.
He used to sleep out here on hot nights. Counting stars. Listening to the river in the distance. Listening to the town breathe.
Once, when he was twelve, he had written his name on the pillar with a knife. He found the mark again—faint, but still there.
The wind blew softly. It carried the scent of wildflowers now. And drying leaves.
He closed his eyes.
And listened.
It was a strange thing—how silence could be louder than voices. How memory could wrap itself around your throat and not let go. How something you thought you had forgotten could return, just because the air changed.
He didn’t cry. There was no need. This wasn’t sadness. It was… something else. A quiet ache. A stillness.
He sat there for a long time.
Until the sky began to change.
The rain stopped. A soft orange glow lit the edges of the clouds. Birds returned to their trees. The street outside echoed with footsteps, carts rolling, distant conversations. Windhollow was waking into evening.
He stood up.
And left the house behind. Not forever. But for now.
Part 4: Roads That Return
Evening in Windhollow was not loud. It unfolded like a page turning slowly. Lamps flickered to life along the street corners, casting pools of golden light on wet stone. Smoke curled from the chimneys, and the scent of wood fire joined the wind.
The man walked again. Not with purpose, but with presence. His boots tapped softly against the ground, now dry in places where the sun had touched. He passed by the library—a small, square building with blue shutters. It was here that he first learned silence could hold stories. That quiet did not mean empty.
He had once sat for hours near the window in that library, his fingers turning pages he could barely understand. No one disturbed him. The librarian had a crooked back and a voice like worn velvet. She used to nod at him but never asked questions. He liked that.
Now the shutters were closed. But he smiled anyway.
Across the street, a lamplighter walked with a long bamboo pole, lifting the glass gently, lighting flame after flame. The ritual hadn’t changed. It reminded him of his grandfather’s slow walks every evening—hands behind his back, counting every step, nodding at neighbors, never speaking unless needed.
The man passed a park next. A small one. Just two swings, a rusted slide, and a crooked bench. A girl played in the mud near the edge, humming to herself. He didn’t pause long—just watched her for a moment, remembering how he once buried a marble here and forgot where.
The streets grew darker. And quieter.
He stopped at a tea stall.
It wasn’t the one he remembered. But the warmth was the same.
The man behind the counter handed him a small clay cup without asking his name.
“First rain,” the man said. “Brings back old things, doesn’t it?”
The boy—now a man—nodded. “Sometimes things that never left.”
The tea was hot, milky, spiced. It burned his tongue slightly—just like it used to.
He stood under the street lamp, sipping slowly, watching the rainwater collect in small puddles, reflecting bits of the sky.
Around him, life moved gently—people walking, calling out, shutting shop doors. It was ordinary. Wonderfully, painfully ordinary.
He had spent years in cities filled with noise and light and speed. Where no one looked up. Where no one paused. But here, every sound had a space to rest. Every person had time to nod. Every street had room to breathe.
He leaned against the post near the well. The same one where he once dropped his wooden toy. He never told anyone. Just cried into the pillow that night. Strange, how that grief had felt so big back then.
Now, it made him smile.
He looked up.
The stars were beginning to return.
Part 5: When the Sky Forgot to End
Night had fully arrived in Windhollow.
But it wasn’t the kind of night that swallowed everything. It was gentle. Lit by yellow windows, by oil lamps behind curtains, by stars unafraid of being seen.
He wandered past the temple once more. The bell rang—deep and slow. A priest moved through the courtyard, feeding cows, wiping the stone floor. The man didn’t enter. He just stood near the gate, listening.
The temple bell echoed with something beyond sound. It always had.
He turned again and walked toward the river.
He passed the school building—its gate locked, blackboard clean, and the ground still holding the footprints of hundreds of running feet. The old banyan tree near the entrance stretched its arms wide across the path. He had once carved an arrow into its bark with a friend. He didn’t remember the friend’s name. But the arrow was still there.
The river looked different at night.
Not darker. Just… deeper.
The same current moved. The same sound. But the reflections were now stars instead of clouds. He sat on the stone steps that led down to the water. The place where he once dipped his feet after school. The place where he once sat in silence for hours, with no one but his thoughts for company.
He was that boy again.
And he was not.
The wind had stilled. The scent of wet sand remained.
He placed the small notebook on his lap and finally opened it. The pages were blank, except for one thing—the first line he had written the day he left Windhollow many years ago.
“I will return, when the rain remembers me.”
He ran his finger over the faded ink.
Then, slowly, he took out a pen. Clicked it open. Not with pressure, not with force. But softly. Like turning a page.
And he began to write.
Not a story.
Not a poem.
Just lines. Feelings. Fragments. The kind of things the river would understand. The kind of things the wind would carry. The kind of things only towns like Windhollow could hold without ever breaking.
There were no crowds. No applause. No ending.
Just a man writing near the river, while the sky forgot to end, and the rain returned like a memory that never truly left.
The Lonely Pen By Aj
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