fact or fiction
Is it a fact or is it merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores relationship myths and truths to get your head out of the clouds and back into romantic reality.
When the Rain Came Back
When the Rain Came Back By Abdul Muhammad The rain came back today. For most people, that means puddles, traffic, or the smell of wet earth. For me, it means you. It’s been five years since you left, Daniel. Five years since that quiet morning when the world decided to take you away in your sleep. I’ve tried to move on — God knows I’ve tried — but every time the first rain falls, it feels like you’re near again. You always loved the rain. Remember? You said it made the world honest — that no one could hide in the rain because everything was stripped bare, raw and real. I never understood what you meant until after you were gone. Now, every time I hear that soft drumming against the windowpane, I feel something loosen inside me. It’s like the rain washes away the silence you left behind. The first year was the hardest. I couldn’t bear to hear a drop fall. I’d close the curtains, put on the television loud, and drown it out. But the sound always found me — seeping through the cracks, echoing in my chest. Then one day, I gave up fighting it. I sat by the window, let it fall, and I cried. Really cried. For the first time, the rain didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a conversation. Now, it’s our ritual. Every spring, when the clouds gather, I make tea — two cups, out of habit — and sit by the kitchen window. The garden outside has grown wild since you left; I never had your patience for trimming hedges or mowing lawns. But when it rains, everything looks alive again — even the neglected roses bloom for a while, as if remembering your hands. People tell me I should move on. That grief is like a wound that should eventually close. But they don’t understand. I don’t want it to close. Because when it does, I’m afraid I’ll lose the last piece of you that still hurts. And maybe that pain is the only proof that you were ever real. This morning, when the rain started, it felt different. It wasn’t the usual soft drizzle. It was heavy, almost urgent — the kind of rain that makes you stop whatever you’re doing and just listen. And then, I heard it. At first, I thought it was just thunder. But beneath the rumble, faint and uncertain, I could hear a melody. A familiar one. I turned off the kettle and held my breath. It was your song. “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” The one you used to hum while cooking, while shaving, while fixing the old radio that never worked. You even sang it off-key at our wedding, remember? Everyone laughed, but I didn’t care. You meant every word, even when your voice cracked. I thought I was imagining it. I mean, how could a song play through thunder? But it grew louder, clearer — the exact version you loved, Elvis Presley’s deep, steady voice threading through the sound of rain. I opened the window. The cold air rushed in, smelling of wet soil and lilacs. The music didn’t stop. It was there, wrapped in the wind, carried between raindrops. And for a moment, I swear I could feel you beside me. Not like a ghost or shadow — but something lighter, softer. A presence. I felt the faintest warmth on my shoulder, the kind you used to leave when you’d lean close and whisper, “Stay a little longer.” I froze, afraid that moving would break the spell. My heart was racing, tears spilling without permission. “Daniel?” I whispered. “Is it you?” The thunder answered, rolling gently across the sky. And right as the lightning flashed, the power flickered out — but the song didn’t stop. It was as if the storm itself was singing for you. I stood there for a long time, soaking in the sound, the smell, the memory. The tea went cold. My hands trembled. Then, as suddenly as it began, the rain eased into a drizzle. The music faded too, leaving behind only silence — and the faint rhythm of water dripping from the roof. I waited, hoping it would come back, but it didn’t. Still, I wasn’t sad. For the first time in years, I felt something close to peace. That night, I dreamed of you. You were standing in the garden, barefoot and smiling, wearing that ridiculous blue raincoat with the missing button. The sky behind you was streaked with pink and gold. You didn’t say anything, but your eyes said enough — a thank you, a goodbye, a promise all at once. When I woke up, the rain had stopped. The sun was spilling through the curtains, and the world smelled new again. I went outside, barefoot like you used to, and the ground was soft and cool beneath my feet. The roses were heavy with droplets, bending low like they were bowing. On one of them, I found something strange — a single petal shaped almost perfectly like a heart. I smiled. You always said the universe speaks in small signs, if we’re willing to listen. Maybe this was one of them. I pressed the petal between the pages of your favorite book — The Old Man and the Sea — and whispered, “I heard you.” Since then, I’ve started leaving the window open when it rains. I don’t wait for the song to return; I don’t need it to. The rain itself is enough. It’s your voice now — soft, steady, alive. Sometimes, neighbors see me sitting there and think I’m lonely. Maybe I am. But it’s a beautiful kind of loneliness — the kind filled with memories instead of emptiness. And every time the rain comes back, I know it’s you reminding me that love doesn’t end, it only changes form. Because love, like rain, never really leaves. It just falls in different places — on the earth, on the roof, on the heart. So today, as I sip my tea and watch the sky weep, I smile and whisper to the clouds, “You kept your promise, didn’t you?” And somewhere, beyond the thunder, I imagine you smiling back.
By Abdul Muhammad 12 months ago in Humans
The Death Of Dialogue
The End Of Listening Once upon a time, disagreement was not a threat. It was a bridge. People could sit across from one another, share convictions, challenge ideas, and still part as neighbors. The goal was not domination but discovery. Somewhere along the way, that changed.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast12 months ago in Humans
“The Price of Honor: When Humanity Is Lost in the Name of Tradition”
Sahl was a simple man from a humble family — honest, quiet, and deeply human. His life was shaped by tradition, loyalty, and a constant struggle between right and wrong. In his world, morality was often measured not by goodness but by pride, revenge, and control.
By shahkar jalal12 months ago in Humans
“Long Live the Dead: The Cry That No One Heard”
Sadro lay on her bed, trembling and weak, her eyes red with tears. “Oh my God,” she whispered, “where is that man who can take me to the doctor? He’s been wandering all day without worry that his wife lies sick in bed. At least bring me some water,” she called to her daughter.
By shahkar jalal12 months ago in Humans
Christ Is King
Every culture has a throne. The only question is who sits on it. Some people crown themselves. Others crown society. Still others crown the government, or money, or pleasure. But someone or something always rules the human heart. The idea of living without a king is an illusion, because every human being worships something.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast12 months ago in Humans
The War on Order
We live in a time when doing the right thing often feels like an act of rebellion. When honesty can ruin a career. When decency is mocked as naïve. When standing for truth invites hatred, censorship, and isolation. Somehow, the people who uphold virtue have become the villains in the story of modern culture.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast12 months ago in Humans
The Death of “Live and Let Live”
There was a time when “live and let live” actually meant something noble. It meant respecting each other’s differences, coexisting in peace, and not forcing our personal views onto our neighbors. It meant freedom of conscience, speech, and thought. It meant that the person next to you didn’t have to believe what you believed for both of you to live decent, peaceful lives.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast12 months ago in Humans
“The Man Who Collected Sunsets”
By Murad Ali Shah Every evening at six, he stood by the hill that overlooked the city. In his hand was a small glass jar, and in his eyes, a quiet kind of longing. To anyone passing by, he looked like an ordinary man — perhaps a dreamer, perhaps a fool — holding up an empty jar toward the fading sky.
By Murad Ali Shah12 months ago in Humans
