He did his crying in the rain.

He disliked rain… With every drop came down sorrow. All grey, colors washed away.

And it was always raining. Pouring down from dawn till dusk, everything monochromatic, no light, no escape. The same sound: pitter-patter. All wet. All crying. All as if to remind the man of his downfall, all the blood spilled on his name that will not come off. He hasn’t cried yet… This rain wasn’t an it, this phenomenon wasn’t his to cry in.

But he’s been strong for too long. Tears rolled out without his consent like and overflowing glass. So he was left with the ever-pouring rain as the only thing he could hide this weakness in.

God of rain - he confided in him now, unwillingly.

There was no reply, no scolding, no word of advice, just silence and his quiet lament. But he knew someone listened. Someone was there.

And it did feel as if a weight was lifted off his shoulders, sorrow  washed away. He could smell the fresh scent of moist nature. It crept in his lungs. He could breathe.

He was only human in the end and this was a much deserved relief. No duty to no village, no clan demanding no pride, no secrets - only a soul in the rain, crying to a hidden comforting presence.