Sometimes I feel like the rain in Hoshimachi never truly stops.
Maybe it's because a part of me never wanted it to.
Because every drop… reminds me of someone.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway, the creak of a wooden chair, the faint aroma of coffee drifting through the air — everything carries the shadow of what once was real.
A time when the laughter of two children still filled this house.
Before it became quiet.
I still remember the day Mother left.
The rain fell hard, blurring the windows of her studio.
My brother stood silently by the door, holding a black umbrella far too big for the both of us.
> "Don't cry, Erika," he said.
But even his voice trembled.
From that day on, I learned that silence can also be a way of crying.
And from that day too, I knew — the blue that fills the sky after the rain is the truest color in the world.
The years passed like rain that refused to end.
Father followed Mother when I was twelve.
And Allen… he left for Tokyo, chasing something I couldn't understand.
What remained was a big, empty house on the hill, and the sound of the sea growing old with time.
I grew up alongside memories.
On every wall of this house, there are traces of those who are gone — in every picture frame, eyes that no longer meet mine.
So I painted.
Not because I wanted to be remembered, but because I was afraid of forgetting.
Each stroke of my brush felt like speaking to them — to Mother, to Father… and to Allen.
Sometimes I thought, if I kept painting the rain, maybe one day he would return with it.
And one day, he did.
It was a quiet afternoon.
The rain fell softly, shyly.
When I opened the studio door, I saw someone standing under an umbrella —
a man with gray eyes, the same eyes that once held my hand when I was small.
> "You came back, Onii-chan?"
I don't know why my voice trembled.
Maybe because for so long, I'd only heard it in dreams.
He looked at me for a long moment — like someone who had finally found his way home after being lost for too long.
> "I tried to forget," he said softly, "but Hoshimachi kept calling me back through the rain."
At that moment, I wanted to cry, but what came out instead was a small smile.
Maybe because if I cried, the rain would grow sad too.
The days that followed felt like colors slowly returning to the world.
We repaired Mother's old studio together.
He held the hammer, I held the brush.
Each time he struck the wall, bits of wood dust rose into the air — and in those floating fragments, I could almost see the echoes of our childhood dancing once again.
Sometimes, I'd steal glances at his face.
There was weariness in his eyes, but also something peaceful.
And when night came, we'd sit on the balcony facing the sea — the same spot where Mother once painted the sunsets.
> "Onii-chan," I asked quietly, "if life is a canvas… do you ever feel like your colors have faded?"
He was silent for a long time.
I knew he was weighing each word carefully, afraid to disturb the stillness around us.
> "I stopped painting after Mother died," he finally said. "I thought if I stopped remembering, I could stop feeling the loss."
I smiled faintly, though my chest tightened.
> "But loss is a color too, isn't it? Without the dark, there can be no light."
He looked at me then — and for the first time in years, his eyes no longer looked empty.
And I realized — the rain between us had finally begun to stop.
A few days later, he had to return to Tokyo.
That morning, the sky was overcast, but it didn't rain.
Maybe the sky was holding back its tears, just like I was.
I gave him a small painting.
Two figures standing under an umbrella, looking out toward the orange sea.
> "You and me," I said, "the first rain after Mother left."
He stared at it for a long time before smiling —
a small, quiet smile I thought I'd never see again.
> "Thank you, Erika," he said. "For the color that never faded."
Now, whenever it rains, I open the studio window and let the damp air in.
I imagine him somewhere far away, maybe also pausing for a moment, just like me.
And within the sound of the rain, I can hear a faint echo —
the sound of my brother's footsteps returning home.
> "Every memory is a stroke of color on the canvas of life,"
Mother once said.
Now I understand —
some colors will never fade,
because they live within the rain that remembers.