It always seemed to happen at night—the quiet drip, drip, drip in the corner of the bedroom. At first, they tried to ignore it. Then came the pots and pans, lined up like soldiers every time rain was in the forecast.
It became a routine: storm clouds meant rearranging furniture and praying the leak wouldn’t spread. Sleep was light, ears always half-listening for the sound of water hitting metal.
One day, they finally had the roof fixed. The next storm rolled in, and instead of rushing around, they just listened. The rain tapped on the shingles, steady and strong—but nothing fell inside.
They laughed at how strange it felt to hear only the storm, not the drip. That night, they slept deeply, the kind of rest you only get when you know your home is protecting you.