short fiction · 2026-10-19

Rain on Tin

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The rain began as a hesitant whisper against the corrugated tin, each drop a tiny percussionist tapping out a Morse code of solitude. Inside, the old lamp flickered, casting long shadows that swayed like tired dancers across the floorboards. I sat by the window, watching the water gather in rivulets that raced down the metal, merging and diverging like thoughts seeking a shore. The rhythm steadied, a steady drum that matched the pulse in my throat, and for a moment the world narrowed to the sound of water on tin—a simple, relentless conversation between sky and shelter. When the rain eased, the tin sang a final, fading note, leaving the air humid with the memory of its song.