"Rainfire and Memory: A Tale to Embrace the Soul"

 

 Rain and Memory’s Fire

Chapter I: The Stove and the Question

Rain fell like an ancient whisper over the roof of the Portal of the Sun. Inside, the wood-burning stove crackled patiently, and the grandmother stirred a pot that filled the house with the scent of memories. The grandson, with small hands and wide eyes, arranged the firewood as if each spark were a star waiting to awaken.

“Grandma, how did you manage without a phone?” he asked, while Pety stretched out on the rug, a silent witness to the ritual.

The grandmother smiled, her eyes drifting far away.

“We didn’t have a phone, or electricity. If we needed to tell someone something, we walked to the neighbor’s house. Letters took days to arrive, but every word was a hug. We cooked with firewood, and the night was lit by kerosene lamps. Silence was a companion, not a punishment.”

The boy frowned, fascinated.

“And how did you know what was happening in the world?”

“We listened to the radio, when it worked. But more than news, what mattered was the birdsong, the neighbor’s greeting, the bread we shared.”

Rain tapped on the window as if it wanted to come inside. The fire burned. The story was just beginning.

 Rain and Memory’s Fire

Chapter II: Time and Imagination

The grandmother sat beside the boy and opened a wooden box. Inside were a handwritten recipe, a sepia-toned photo, and a small rag doll.

“And how did you have fun without TV or internet?”

“With whatever we had. Twigs, stones, shadows. We invented worlds. Every tree was a castle, every puddle a galaxy. Time wasn’t measured by digital clocks, but by the smoke from the fire and the song of the crickets.”

The boy gently touched the doll with reverence.

“And were you happy?”

“Yes. We didn’t have much, but we had everything. Family, community, imagination. Bread tasted like home, and every afternoon was an adventure.”

Pety purred. The rain kept falling, but now it seemed to sing.

The boy picked up his notebook and wrote:

"Today I understood that life without things was richer in hugs. This story is mine now. And one day, it will belong to my children."

The grandmother embraced him. The fire burned. So did memory.