When the rain first started, no one thought much of it. It was just another storm in the small town of Linton, where thunder rolled lazily over the hills and the streets always smelled faintly of wet earth. But then, people started noticing them—the children who only appeared when it rained.
They weren’t ghosts, not exactly. They looked like real children, laughing and running through the puddles, their clothes shimmering like liquid glass. They never spoke, only played, splashing and twirling beneath the downpour. And when the skies cleared, they were gone leaving behind small puddles shaped like footprints.
Old Mrs. Harrow was the first to remember. She said they’d been there before—years ago, after the flood that swept through the lower town and took twelve children with it.
“They come back,”
She whispered,
“every time the clouds remember them.”
One afternoon, a boy named Caleb followed their laughter down to the old bridge. The rain children were there again, dancing on the riverbank, their eyes bright as drops of mercury. One of them turned and smiled at him. A girl with braids and no shadow. She beckoned.
Caleb stepped closer. The rain thickened around them, the sound of water swallowing the world. He reached out his hand, and for a moment, it was warm like touching sunlight trapped in a raindrop. Then the storm passed.
The townsfolk found Caleb’s boots by the bridge, filled with rainwater. No one ever saw him again. But when the next storm rolled in, they said there was one more child playing among the puddles—one with a smile just like Caleb’s.
