The rain greets us
like an old friend,
its soft percussive sound
insistent
filling the empty street
with a steady, calming rhythm.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter
Keys jingle in my hand,
bright as little bells.
The house waits ahead,
familiar and patient.
The door opens with a long,
comfortable creak
the sound of a place
that knows my footsteps.
Recognizes us
Inside,
the air is cool and still.
Not musty—
but rich with the scent of wood,
of years and stories.
Memories like a film strip run thru me.
Black and white, colour, silent, noisy
The walls also hold their own quiet warmth,
like a hug you don’t have to ask for.
Light slips in through the curtains,
playing across the floor,
and shadows dance lazily
in the corners.
I walk slowly,
feeling the welcome
in every creak beneath my shoes.
I let my fingertips
trail along the wall,
It’s a habit I’ve never shaken—
not out of need,
but out of affection,
a quiet ritual between me
and these walls that have stood
through every version of me.
The surface is cool,
but not cold—
solid in a way people rarely are.
It doesn’t ask questions,
doesn’t judge.
It just holds me steady,
its faint texture
pressing gently into my skin
like a small reminder
that I belong here.
For a moment,
I let my hand rest still,
listening to the hum of the house—
the way the air seems to shift
when it knows you’re about to leave.
I take that feeling with me,
folding it away somewhere safe.
So when it’s time to go,
I don’t feel the weight of parting.
I feel the fullness
of having been here.
The way a deep breath lingers
even after it’s gone.
The rain is gentle
As we step outside again.
It beads on my coat,
mingles with the laughter
We step into the rain again me and you
and instead of shivering,
I lift my face to meet it.
Each drop is a small hello,
a cool kiss from the sky,
a promise.