🌧️"When the Rain Begins Again"
The first drops of rain tapped against the apartment window — tick… tack… tick… tack — like tiny echoes of a memory refusing to fade.
Allen Rainsfeld sat on the gray sofa, one hand holding the TV remote, the other cradling a bowl of warm roasted chips. The television in front of him played a cooking show — a chef enthusiastically explaining the art of caramelizing butter.
But Allen's mind wasn't there.
His gaze was distant, lost beyond the flickering screen, somewhere between the hum of rain and the quiet rhythm of his own heartbeat.
He sighed softly, and one piece of snack slipped from his hand onto his lap.
> "Rain again, huh… Hoshimachi's always like this in June," he murmured under his breath.
And as if summoned by the scent of the rain, his memory began to blur and drift — fading, then blooming again like watercolor meeting fresh water.
🌧️ Flashback
It was an afternoon long ago, inside their old home.
A younger Allen sat by a wide wooden table, watching his father sketch something with a pencil between his fingers. Blueprints sprawled across the table — straight lines and arches that made no sense to the boy.
Richard Rainsfeld, wearing his round glasses and a slightly wrinkled shirt, looked tired yet content. His smile, however, was as warm as sunlight after a storm.
> "Allen," he said, eyes still tracing the paper, "every building starts with the first line you believe in. Life's the same."
Allen tilted his head.
> "So… I have to be an architect too, like you?"
Richard chuckled softly, his laughter deep and gentle.
> "You don't have to be like me. But I want you to build something — something that makes people feel like they've come home. A house, maybe… or something warm."
Allen looked down, doodling a crooked line on his sketchbook.
> "Something warm?"
> "Yes," his father replied, patting his head. "The world can be cold sometimes. If you can make someone smile with what you create — be it a home, a song, or even food — that's enough."
Outside, the rain began to fall softly. The blue hydrangeas in the garden swayed under the drops.
Allen watched them for a while, then said with quiet determination:
> "Then… I want to make something everyone can eat, so no one feels lonely when it rains."
Richard smiled — the kind of smile that stays in memory forever.
> "Hmm… that sounds like a sweet dream."
☕ Present Day
The sound of a TV commercial snapped him back to the present.
Allen blinked, realizing he'd been staring at nothing. The reflection on the dark screen showed a man with slightly messy hair and calm, tired eyes.
He let out a small, almost self-mocking laugh.
> "Funny, isn't it, Dad?" he whispered. "I didn't become an architect like you… but I'm still building something."
His gaze shifted to the coffee table in front of him — a recipe book lay open to a page titled Butter Honey Scones.
On the margin, written in neat handwriting, were his own words:
> 'A taste that can comfort someone on a rainy day.'
He stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the rain was still falling — gentle now, not sorrowful.
> "Maybe I didn't build houses," he said softly, "but I built warmth for people inside them."
Allen turned off the TV, grabbed his apron from the wall hook, and headed into his small kitchen.
Soon, the scent of melting butter filled the air, mingling with the rhythm of rain beyond the glass.
And out there, beneath the gray skies of Hoshimachi, the rain kept falling — again and again.
But this time, it wasn't a memory that hurt.
It was a melody — gentle, nostalgic, and warm — played for someone who had finally found the meaning of his father's dream.