The screen door creaked on its hinges, groaning like an old memory as Anna stepped onto the porch of the house she hadn't seen in nearly twelve years. The wind carried the thick, sweet scent of a light rain on wet red clay and beneath her feet, the boards still flexed in the same spots they had when she was seventeen.

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It was the same porch where they'd kissed for the first time. The same porch where she had told him goodbye.

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She drew her sweater tighter across her shoulders as the rain started again—soft at first, then steady, soaking into the cracked driveway and the worn wooden steps. Her rental car sat behind her, streaked with the rust-colored dust of backroads that once knew every inch of her teenage life. Jasper County clay—it never really let go of anything.

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The house was empty now. Her parents had both passed within the last three years, and it had taken her a while to come back and face it. Inside, boxes waited to be packed, old photos clung to the walls like the whispers of a past that hadn’t quite given up.

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Anna wandered to the edge of the porch, her eyes tracing the silhouette of the house across the field. His house.

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Jake’s.

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It had been repainted—a soft gray now, with a wraparound porch and blue shutters. She could tell someone had loved it into its new shape. The old barn behind it still stood like a stubborn mule, and she swore she could still see the tire swing that used to hang from the old pecan tree.

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A flash of lightning lit the distant sky, followed a second later by thunder rolling over the hills. Just like that night.

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She closed her eyes.

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They had been seventeen and wild, all laughter and desire, barefoot in the bed of Jake’s rusted Ford, lying on a patchwork quilt that had belonged to his grandmother. They’d snuck out after dinner, hearts thumping like drums, fingers laced together as they took that old dirt road past the cotton fields and the Miller farm.

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“I heard it’s going to rain,” she’d whispered, as they climbed into the truck bed.

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He had smiled and leaned in closer. “Good let it.”

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Half a moon peeked through a sky filled with clouds, and they stared up at it, teenagers pretending time wasn’t chasing them. College was coming. Futures that would split them apart. Her scholarship to New York University. His father’s expectations to stay and work the land.

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But that night, none of it mattered.

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Then the rain came—soft, then heavy—soaking their clothes and plastering her hair to her skin. They’d climbed inside the cab, dripping and breathless, and she could still remember the sound: the pounding of her heart and the constant drumming of the storm on the roof and hood. His fingers had trembled as they brushed a strand of wet hair from her face. And when they kissed, it had been the kind of kiss that writes itself into your bones.

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She had loved him. No matter how many years had passed. No matter how far she had run.

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The Georgia rain hadn’t washed it away.

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A voice behind her startled her.

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“Anna?”

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She turned.

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Jake stood at the base of the porch steps, soaked from the rain, his hair darkened and shirt clinging to his chest. But his eyes—those stormy blue eyes—hadn’t changed.

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She swallowed. “Jake.”

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He didn’t move at first. Just looked at her like he wasn’t sure she was real.

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“I heard someone was at the house,” he said, his voice soft. “Didn’t think it’d be you.”

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“I wasn’t sure I’d come,” she admitted.

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They stood there for a long moment, the rain falling between them like a curtain, years pooling in the silence.

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“I saw the house,” she finally said. “You fixed it up nice.”

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He gave a small nod. “Did most of the work myself. After Dad passed, I figured it was time to do something with it.”

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Anna looked down, her throat tightening. “I’m sorry.”

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“Me too.”

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They watched the field for a while, the same field that once held all their secrets, the same place they’d danced barefoot under thunderclouds and kissed and loved like the world was ending.

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“You stayed,” she said.

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He nodded. “Didn’t really know where else to go.”

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She hesitated. “And… is there someone? In your life?”

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Jake looked down, his boots sinking slightly into the wet clay. “There was. For a while. But to be completely honest, no one ever felt like… you.”

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She blinked, not sure how to answer.

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“I thought about you,” he said. “All the time. Wondered if you ever thought about me much.”

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She smiled faintly, her eyes glistening. “Every time it rained.”

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He climbed the steps slowly, stopping beside her. Neither of them spoke. There wasn’t much left to say that hadn’t already been said with silence.

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“I came back to try and say goodbye,” she whispered. “To this house. This place, but I don't know.”

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“Well, I’m glad the rain brought you home.”

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She looked at him—older now, rougher around the edges, but still him. Still the boy who’d kissed her in a thunderstorm and whispered that their love could be enough. She wished she could go back. Change things. Tell him not to let her go.

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But life had its own way of unfolding.

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“I leave tomorrow,” she said.

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“I understand.”

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The rain eased, falling softer now, like it knew it had done enough. Jake reached out and touched her hand—just once, gently—and she let him. His fingers were warm and familiar.

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“I still love you,” he said quietly.

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She closed her eyes and let the truth of that sink into her skin like the rain.

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“I never stopped Jake,” she whispered.

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He didn’t ask her to stay.

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And she didn’t ask him to leave.

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They just stood there, surrounded by memories, looking deep into each other's eyes, and let the Georgia rain do what it always did to them.

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The next morning, Anna drove down the old dirt road, now paved over and lined with mailboxes that hadn’t been there when they were kids. But the air still smelled the same. The fields still held the echo of laughter and bare feet running. And as she reached the edge of the property, she slowed the car and rolled down the window a bit.

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It was raining again.

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And she knew, deep in her chest, that no matter how far she went—no matter how many years passed—there was two things that wonderful rain wouldn't ever wash away.

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All her beautiful memories and her dear Jake, who still waits for her in the Georgia rain.

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​

THE GEORGIA RAIN – PART 2

 

Anna came back to Brookfield seven years later, in early spring, when the fields were still green, when the sky hung low and the air smelled like rain that hadn’t decided yet whether to fall. She crossed the county line just after dusk, headlights sweeping over those country roads that felt smaller now, narrower somehow—but still intimate and familiar.

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She hadn’t told anyone she was coming.

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Not officially.

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The house waited for her the way it always had.

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White paint dulled by time. Porch boards weathered but intact. The wind chimes gone now, but she could still hear them if she tried hard enough. She stood in the driveway for a long time with the engine off, forehead resting against the steering wheel, breathing in the scent of damp red clay and pine.

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Her parents were gone.

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That truth no longer hit like a blow. It lived in her now, settled deep, like something she carried instead of something that chased her. She had inherited the house a few years ago. Let it sit. Told herself she wasn’t ready.

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Now she was here to stay.

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To restore it.

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To make it breathe again.

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And—if she was honest with herself—to see if the boy who had loved her in and out of the rain still lived across the field.

 

She didn’t see Jake the first few days.

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She worked alone, opening windows that hadn’t been lifted in years, dusting picture frames that still held her mother’s smile, pulling sheets off furniture like she was waking the house from a long sleep. Every sound echoed—her footsteps, her sighs, the quiet grief she hadn’t expected to feel so sharply.

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At night, the rain came.

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Not dramatic. Not stormy.

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Just steady and lovely.

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She sat on the porch wrapped in a sweater, listening to it fall, wondering if he could hear it too.

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On the fourth morning, she found him waiting at the edge of the property.

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He stood near the fence line, hands in his pockets, boots sunk slightly into the soft ground. Taller than she remembered. Broader. A little grayer at the temples.

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But when he smiled, it was the same boy who had once whispered good, let it when the rain started falling.

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“Hey,” he said.

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Her heart stumbled. “Hey, Jake.”

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“I heard you were back,” he said. “Figured it was only a matter of time.”

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She nodded. “I wasn’t sure I’d come.”

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“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You said that once before.”

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They smiled at the same time, sad and knowing.

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“I’m fixing the house up,” she said. “Thought I’d start with the porch. It’s worse than it looks.”

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He glanced at it, then back at her. “I can help. If you want.”

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She did.

 

They worked together the way they always had—without ceremony, without too many words. Jake measured and cut. Anna painted and sanded. Sometimes their shoulders brushed. Sometimes they stood apart in silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing gently between them.

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She noticed things.

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The way he still paused before stepping onto the porch, like he was asking permission. The way he looked toward the field sometimes, distracted, thoughtful. The way he never asked why she had come back.

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“Staying this time?” he asked one afternoon as thunder murmured in the distance.

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“Yes,” she said, surprising herself with how certain it felt.

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He nodded once. “That’s good.”

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She wanted to ask about his life. Wanted to know who had touched his hands, who may have shared his bed, who had heard his fears in the dark.

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She didn’t ask.

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Jennifer answered that question for her a week later.

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Anna first saw her at the diner.

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She was laughing behind the counter, sunlight catching in her dark hair, her smile easy and open. She moved with confidence, grace—someone who belonged wherever she stood. Jake sat at the counter, coffee in front of him, listening to her like the world had narrowed to that small, bright space.

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When Jennifer noticed Anna watching, she smiled—not defensively, not suspiciously.

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Just kindly.

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Jake followed her gaze.

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The look on his face when he saw Anna standing there was complicated. Not guilt. Not surprise.

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Something a little sad.

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“Anna,” he said, standing. “This is Jennifer.”

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They shook hands.

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Jennifer’s grip was warm. Steady. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

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Anna believed her.

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They sat together that afternoon, rain streaking the windows as the sky darkened outside. Jennifer talked about the diner, about plans she and Jake had made and changed and made again. She spoke easily, honestly.

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“I know he loved you,” Jennifer said later, quietly, when Jake stepped outside to take a call.

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Anna’s breath caught.

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Jennifer didn’t look angry. Or threatened.

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“He still does,” Jennifer continued. “Just a little differently I think.”

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Anna swallowed. “And you’re okay with that?”

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Jennifer smiled, sad but strong. “Love doesn’t always come with an eraser.”

 

The storm came that night and the roof finally failed.

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The sky turned green and black, thunder cracking open the heavens like something breaking loose. Rain fell hard and furious, just like it had when they were seventeen, just like it always did when the past demanded to be felt.

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Anna was alone when the first leak started.

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Water dripped through the ceiling near the hallway, soaking the old rug her mother had loved. She scrambled for buckets, heart racing.

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Then headlights cut through the rain.

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Jake.

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He didn’t knock.

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They worked frantically, shouting over the storm, hands shaking as they climbed ladders and dragged tarps into place. Rain soaked them through, hair plastered to skin, breath coming hard.

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At one point, Anna slipped.

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Jake caught her.

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His arms wrapped around her instinctively, solid and sure, holding her close as thunder roared overhead.

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For a moment, the world narrowed to the two of them and the rain.

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“I never stopped loving you,” she suddenly said into his shoulder, the words torn loose by the storm.

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Jake closed his eyes.

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“I know,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

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They stood there, rain running down their faces, sadness and love tangled so tightly neither of them knew where one ended and the other began.

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When the storm finally broke, the silence felt sacred.

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Jake stepped back first.

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Jennifer’s car was parked at the end of the drive.

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She had come looking for him.

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She saw them standing there, wet and breathless and undone.

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And she knew right then, she understood.

 

Nothing dramatic followed.

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No shouting. No ultimatums.

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Jennifer stayed that night. Helped clean. Made coffee. Sat on the porch while the rain softened into something almost gentle. She didn’t cry.

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Later, she took Jake’s hand.

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“I love you,” she said. “But I won’t compete with a memory and a past that’s still alive.”

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Jake didn’t argue with her.

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Sometimes love means knowing when to step back.

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Jennifer left Brookfield about a month later for a job in Savannah. They parted with kindness, with gratitude, with a love that had been real and necessary and not enough.

 

Spring turned toward summer.

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The house was restored.

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Fresh paint. New windows. The porch strong again.

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Anna and Jake sat there one evening as the Georgia rain fell softly, the familiar air warm and heavy with hope and promise.
“Your love for me never faded away,” Anna said. “It just waited.”

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Jake looked out at the field, rain darkening the earth. “I certainly waited a long time,” he said with a small smile, then added, “But good things come to those who wait.”

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She reached for his hand, her fingers finding his like they always had.
He laced them together, holding on.

 

The rain fell around them—not washing anything away,
but gently reminding them of what had always been between them,
and always would be.

 

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Written by Mark Gammill

 

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​​​This story was inspired by the song "Georgia Rain" by Trisa Yearwood.