The Message That Came During the Rain
In Amina’s village, rain did not fall quietly.
It arrived with drumming rooftops, muddy paths, and the smell of wet earth rising into the air. When it rained, school often ended early, and children ran home laughing, sandals splashing, hair sticking to their faces.
Amina loved rainy days.
That afternoon, the rain came suddenly. The teacher clapped her hands and smiled.
“Go home carefully,” she said.
Amina tucked her books under her shawl and hurried along the narrow path toward her house. By the time she reached home, her dress was damp, her feet were brown with mud, and her heart felt light.
She changed clothes, warmed her hands near the stove, and reached for her mother’s old phone.
It wasn’t really hers.
But on rainy days, her mother let her use it.
The phone was small and scratched, but it held many things.
Songs.
Stories.
Short videos that jumped from one to another.
Amina sat near the window, rain tapping the glass, and watched a video of a girl folding paper birds. Then another appeared. And another.
She didn’t notice how much time passed.
Then a small sound came from the phone.
Ping.
A message.
Amina frowned. She didn’t usually get messages.
She opened it.
“You won a prize!”
“Click here to collect your reward.”
Her heart skipped.
She hadn’t entered anything. But the message looked happy. Colorful. Friendly.
She clicked nothing yet. She just stared.
Outside, the rain slowed.
Inside, the phone buzzed again.
“Hurry! Limited time!”
Amina’s fingers hovered over the screen.
She imagined surprises. Stickers. A game. Maybe even something she could show her friends.
She clicked.
The screen changed.
It asked for her name.
She typed it.
Then it asked for her age.
She paused.
She wasn’t sure why.
She typed it.
Then it asked for something else.
Amina felt a small twist in her stomach.
Her little brother ran past her, chasing a spoon. The house smelled of lentils. Her mother hummed quietly near the stove.
Amina looked at the screen again.
The message felt different now. Less friendly. More impatient.
“Almost there!” it said.
She closed the phone.
Just like that.
Later that evening, the rain stopped. Amina sat outside with her grandmother, who was shelling peas into a metal bowl.
“Grandma,” Amina asked, “can a message be kind at first… and then not be?”
Her grandmother didn’t look surprised. “Of course,” she said. “People can do that too.”
“But the message wasn’t a person,” Amina said.
Her grandmother smiled. “Someone made it.”
Amina thought about that.
The next day, Amina told her friend Lela about the message. Lela’s eyes widened.
“That happened to me once,” she said. “It asked for my father’s number.”
“What did you do?” Amina asked.
“I showed my aunt,” Lela said. “She laughed. Then she blocked it.”
Amina nodded, feeling something loosen inside her chest.
That afternoon, Amina used the phone again. But this time, she noticed things she hadn’t before.
How some videos felt calm.
How some made her restless.
How some wanted her to keep watching, even when she didn’t feel happy anymore.
When another message appeared — bright and cheerful — Amina didn’t open it.
She turned the phone face down and went outside.
The ground was still wet. The air was fresh. Children were already gathering, sticks in hand, drawing lines in the mud.
Amina joined them.
That night, as she lay on her mat, she thought about the message.
It hadn’t shouted.
It hadn’t scared her.
It had smiled.
That made her pause.
She wondered how many messages were like that.
How many wanted something without saying it clearly.
The phone rested on the shelf nearby, silent.
Amina closed her eyes, listening to the quiet that came after rain.
She didn’t feel afraid.
She felt curious.
And somewhere inside her, a small thought settled:
Just because something invites you…
doesn’t mean you have to go.
She held onto that thought,
not as a rule —
but as a question she knew she would ask again.
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