The rain came down in a relentless curtain, each drop a tiny messenger of sorrow. The city streets glistened, reflecting the gray sky like a broken mirror. It was one of those days when even the bravest umbrellas surrendered, their spines bending under the weight of melancholy.

In a cramped apartment on the fifth floor, Lily sat by the window, her fingers tracing the raindrops as they raced down the glass. She had always loved rainy days—the way they softened the edges of the world, blurred the harsh lines of reality. But today, the rain felt like a cruel accomplice, echoing the ache in her heart.

Lily’s husband, James, had left three months ago. His goodbye had been a whisper—a fragile promise that he’d return soon. But soon had stretched into an eternity. His letters arrived sporadically, ink smudged by raindrops, words fading like memories. Lily clung to them, reading and rereading, searching for hidden meanings.

The room smelled of dampness and solitude. The old clock on the wall ticked like a heartbeat, measuring the emptiness. Lily had stopped cooking; the kitchen remained untouched, pots and pans gathering dust. She survived on canned soup and memories.

Outside, the rain tapped against the windowpane like a thousand lost souls seeking refuge. Lily imagined James out there, battling the storm, his uniform soaked, his eyes haunted. She wondered if he thought of her—the way she thought of him every waking moment.

One evening, as the rain intensified, Lily received a letter. The paper was wrinkled, edges frayed. James wrote of trenches and mud, of comrades lost and battles won. But his words held no warmth, no promise of return. Instead, they were like raindrops—cold, impersonal.

Lily clutched the letter to her chest, tears blending with rain. She whispered James’s name, as if the wind could carry her longing across oceans. She wondered if he remembered their first kiss—the taste of coffee on his lips, the way the rain had danced around them.

The clock chimed midnight. Lily stood by the window, her breath fogging the glass. She imagined James walking toward her, uniform drenched, eyes weary. She would run to him, hold him, and the rain would wash away their pain.

But the door remained closed, and the rain kept falling. Lily sank to the floor, her tears merging with the raindrops outside. She knew that some love stories were written in ink, while others dissolved in water. Hers was becoming the latter—a fragile memory etched in rain.

And so, in that dimly lit apartment, Lily wept for love lost, for promises broken, and for the rain that carried away her dreams. The storm raged on, and she wondered if James would ever return—or if he, too, had become tears in the rain.