A/N: An old Hindi movie song and the desperate need to write... that's where this little story came from. It's a drabble, so expect short chapters, posting alternate days.

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight, or any old Hindi songs. They're both a ton of fun, though.



It's raining again. It's always raining.

When I was a kid, I remember my mom reading to me. She loved books. Those books always painted an appealing picture of the rain. It was all about staying indoors, watching drops chase each other down windowpanes, with a background score of the soothing percussion of rain on a tin roof. In my imagination, rain came to be associated with vague impressions of warmth, shiny, silvery, sparkling splashes, a feeling of safety, contentment and hope.

It took me a while to realize that reality—my actual experience of rain—was pretty far from the ideal I had come to expect from her stories. Maybe I was just a dumb kid, but I still remember how cheated I had felt the first time it hit home that rain was wet, cold, and miserable.

I remember standing out there on the driveway outside our house, watching my illusions being washed away, one 'tremulous prism' at a time.

It was raining, it was wet, and her car skidded on those deceptively lovely raindrops, straight into the tree, right down the lane. I heard the crunch of metal, and then a stillness broken only by the patter of rain on tin—a sound that she loved so much.

No, that one incident does not continue to direct my life today, fifteen years after the fact. I'm not hung up on it, I don't hate the rain, and I don't even have an overly cynical attitude about everything and everyone. If anything, I'm as depressingly normal as the next person.

It's still raining.

Unlike the description of the melody of falling raindrops from her stories, what I hear is a multi-layered orchestra. There's the annoyingly repetitive 'plink-plunk' of the leak in the far corner that tells me Seth didn't fix the roof as he promised me he would. There's a fast, staccato beat against the roof and walls, nothing like the dreamy rhythm mom promised. It's punctuated by the howling wind, a wailing, whooshing entity that seems to threaten to blow my little shack down with each shuddering rattle of my shutters. Throughout, there's a sloshing, splashing, swirling sound of water, gurgling through the gutters and down the pipes, adding to the stream, a steady sheet that probably covers the street already.

It's so loud that I nearly miss the added splashing of feet wading through rushing water and the loud clatter of hard rain on plastic—a rather pretty purple umbrella, edged with polka dots, of all things.

I blink and set down the wrench I had been using to fix old Doc Banner's car. Whatever else I expected this miserable, rainy night, it definitely wasn't this.