[pencil sketch: small town beneath dark clouds, rain falling only within town limits]
It rained in the town almost every day.
Not the kind of rain that arrives with weather maps and forecasts. This rain belonged to the town itself.
Travelers would drive toward it beneath clear blue skies and watch, with growing confusion, as a gray curtain appeared on the horizon. Beyond the town limits, sunlight shone brightly. Inside, rain tapped steadily on rooftops and windows.
Nobody could explain it.
Meteorologists tried. Scientists visited. A documentary crew spent three weeks interviewing residents before their equipment mysteriously filled with condensation and stopped working.
The townspeople had long since stopped asking why.
Children carried umbrellas the way other children carried backpacks. Gardens flourished. Moss grew on everything. The local hardware store sold more rain barrels than nails.
And somehow, despite the endless drizzle, nobody seemed unhappy.
The rain was gentle. Patient. Familiar.
Some claimed it was listening.
They said the rain became heavier when someone was grieving and lighter when a celebration filled the streets. It seemed to know things before people did.
One summer, the rain stopped.
At first everyone celebrated. Children ran through dry streets. Store owners set tables outside. Laundry dried in record time.
But after a week, something felt wrong.
The town seemed quieter. The air felt hollow. Conversations ended sooner than they should have.
Even the flowers looked uncertain.
Then one evening, just before sunset, a single drop landed on the town clock.
Another followed.
Then another.
By nightfall, the familiar drizzle had returned.
No one cheered. No one complained.
They simply stepped onto their porches and listened.
The town sounded like itself again.
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