It starts softly. A single drop on the windowpane. Then another. Soon, the world is wrapped in a gray hush, and the old voices rise with the scent of wet earth.

Today, you choose to walk. Would you like a shorter version, or one tailored for a specific tone (e.g., romantic, melancholic, inspirational)?

So you stand at the glass, watching rivulets race like small, desperate lives. And you think of the poet Rumi, calm as a dry room: "Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond." Even the rain? Especially the rain.

"Some people walk in the rain," mused a child once in a movie. "Others just get wet."