Only the rain remembers

Only the rain remembers

Where I'm from, rain tastes like sunshine. Not the warming kind - the burning kind.

I was eight years old when the first rain came to claim me, when the mask of my idyllic home slipped, revealing the captivity woven into our family lore.

Before the rain, everything was silent, unmoved, unaltered. Our days passed in the meadows surrounding our family estate - blissful, joyous, and unnatural. Almost as part of our routine, my sisters and I - Estelle the first, Magnolia the second in age - would spend our afternoons sprawled across the grass, dreaming of our futures as damsels of the Keelen family.

Magnolia was the one supposed to go.

I remember the day of her Release: sitting on the marble steps of our house, Magnolia's long ivory hair cascading down the back of her lilac chiffon gown, a striking contrast to her bronze skin. She was braiding my unruly strands into an elegant crown, weaving in flower petals as she went.

We were daughters of different fathers - Estelle, Magnolia, and me, Lila - united under the name and honour of Keelen, under the same mother. Magnolia was the best of us. While Este was off climbing trees, Magnolia devoted herself to me - telling me stories of our town, our family, teaching me our ways.

The lore says Keelen girls were never meant to walk on land. That’s why the air sometimes seems to drown us. We have always belonged to the water.

I never really believed that.

I think breathing is something you learn - something you feel when you're safe and loved. I could breathe when I was with Magnolia.

“Do you think magic is true, Lila?” she would ask, again and again, never leaving space for an answer before continuing:

“Magic is like love - true if you find the right one.” “How do I know if it’s the right one?” I’d ask. “It’s a feeling deep inside,” she’d reply, tickling my stomach. “Like butterflies?" “No, Lila. The opposite. Complete peace and ease. That’s when you’ve found the right one. It should fill you with certainty - no more questions. That’s when magic becomes true.”

I never found out if she found her true magic before the Release.

As the chosen one, Magnolia's dreams never mattered. We thought she was enough. We thought she was the one.

I suppose that’s why three maidens are born - two to survive and one to be chosen. A safeguard in case one proves unworthy. Or impure.

Then, on the night of Ostara, a time when day and night hang in perfect balance, she turned me around one last time to assess her work.

“Promise me, Lila, that you won’t give in to them. Promise me,” she said, eyes sharp with urgency. I could only nod.

“Good. Now go put your dress on. The ceremony is about to begin.” That was the last time I saw my sister.

The Lore

It is said that twenty-six thousand years ago, as the first drop of rain touched the earth, Manon - the third daughter of the Keelen line - was born. And as all legends go, the girl, both blessed and cursed, was destined to live a fortunate, but short life.

But on a spring night, three sisters - each more different than the last – stepped through the willow-framed windows of Keelen Manor. Only one ever returned.

Little Manon, only twelve years old, with wickedness woven into her soul, changed the rules of the game forever. Playing as all girls do, Manon revealed herself to be the most dangerous of them all. In a single moment of vulnerability, she traded her life for two others.

Two days later, with no light to help her recover from the deep loss, the Lady of the House followed her daughters into the sea.

No more sacrifice was needed - for three gifts had filled the goddess thoroughly.

But as the Keelen line began anew, the lands dried. Fruit soured. The sea grew hungry.

The Release was born: the giving of a Keelen daughter to the sea, a gesture of gratitude to the goddess, who continued to bless the land with life through water.

Each generation: three daughters. One chosen.

Now

Every Keelen girl is born with a gift. A mark from the goddess. A chance to destroy her sisters – if she chooses.

After the fifth generation, when all three perished, a pact was made: to live in peace, and let the goddess choose. Our gifts became more than power. They became symbols by which the next to be released would be identified.

Estelle’s gift lies in words. Born without speech, her power manifests in written language – in letters that build realities.

Magnolia was gifted with natural magic, able to grow and wield the plants rooted in the island’s soil.

And mine? Mine is rain. Not the calling but the shaping. I do not ask the skies for storm – I mold it.

Tonight, the balance is broken. Instead of a flower, rain has come again - not to water the land – but to choose.

The moment the first drop falls, it feels as if all sounds have been muffled, movements slowed. The once-whimsical and colourful home of my childhood is now grey and foggy.

I don’t remember moving from the front porch – where I’d just left Magnolia - to the large, open dressing salon in the manor.

My mother’s maids - women who raised me - swarming around me with powder, fabrics and words, adorning their damsel.

I wonder now if that’s all we ever were to them. To those four women who cared for us from birth, who taught Estelle to write, who spent hours in the flower garden with Magnolia, who let me slip out at night to swim in the starry lake nearby.

Suddenly, I catch a flash of short onyx hair in the mirror. I only know one person with that colour – so rare on the island that people believed her beauty alone would make her the sacrifice.

“Lady Lila? Are you listening?”

Miss Marion stands in front of me now. I don't know when she arrived, but she’s holding two satin fabrics in her hands – both different shades of rainy blue.

"I'm sorry Marion. What was that?"

She looks at me with concern in her eyes - but not enough to protect me from this. Not enough to let me live.

This is the way. The part of the lore that’s been burned into our core.

“This is important, Lila. The right colour fabric will establish you as more than a damsel-“ her voice softens, “-as a sacred giving.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So I just look away, back to the colourless world around me, searching for a spark of onyx in the fog.

The next moment I'm dressed in a stone-blue corset, diamonds dropping from the fabric like raindrops, and a matching cerulean skirt, swaying in the wind of the stormy rain.

I wasn't prepared for a rain I couldn't shape - a call from the goddess to reclaim the gift she once placed in a human girl.

Maybe the stories are right.

Maybe I wasn't made for the land.

Maybe I was always made for the water.

I walk towards the Release point - a large marble platform in the middle of the meadow that was once our childhood playground.

My hair, the colour of a morning sunrise, once so meticulously braided, now hangs loosely down my back. A crown of blue stone sits in its place.

My fingers lift to where the braid used to sit, as if I could still feel the petals there. Was that the last time I felt the sparks of Magnolia's magic woven into me?

When I reach the platform, I know what is expected of me.

No matter who Mother, the maids, the town – or even we – thought would be chosen, we’ve all been trained in the old rites, in the rule of the lore.

I stand in the place where Manon made her sacrifice. My back to the family home. My face to the vast sea.

And I recite the first part of the rites.

The rites were established after the loss of the fifth generation of Keelen girls. Each sacrifice must be made willingly - and with a true heart to the sea.

I hear Magnolia’s voice in the back of my mind:

"Magic is like love - true when you find the right one...complete peace and ease...no more questions."

I think I finally understand these words - true to my soul, and true to the rite.

As I step towards the edge of the platform, nothing but water below, I look back - not for Mother or Miss Marion – but for one last look at my sisters.

Estelle stands perfectly still, her hair wild and furious around her, speaking for her in ways words never could. I feel the power of her anger. The strength of her love.

Beside her stands Magnolia, a good head shorter, her opposite in every way, but never in the ways that mattered. Her wavy hair still flickers with life and colour in the rainy mist. Our eyes meet for just a moment – and she nods, almost imperceptibly, as if burrowing her earlier words into my chest.

They have shaped every moment of my life. And my love for them is unquestionable.

I feel peace.

I feel ease.

One last thought crosses my mind before I fall: How lucky I’ve been to feel a love so true it feels like magic - a love worth sacrificing for.

And then – I feel everything as the water devours me. “There you are.”

The voice doesn’t reach my ears – it echoes through me instead. Familiar and strange. Ancient and impossibly powerful.

I’m not sure how I’m still alive.

Maybe this is what death feels like: weightless, ungrounded, unmade.

“No, little damsel,” the voice returns, louder now, almost amused. “It is not your time yet.”

I open my eyes.

Before me stands a woman of impossible beauty – olive skin, dark auburn hair, and eyes like deep teal lightning. She is striking. Unforgettable.

I try to bow, but my limbs move strangely. Only then do I realise – I am still underwater. “Your Holiness,” I whisper.

“How can I still breathe?” “Why am I not dead?”

She smiles. “I will answer your questions. But first, little damsel, you must answer mine.” She pauses, eyes sharp.

“Why did you sacrifice yourself – and not your sisters?”

I’m stunned. The question anchors in my chest.

“I love them,” I finally say, “They are my sisters.”

She turns her back, her coral gown swirling like seaweed around her. “Do you think there was no love between the others?”

I’ve wondered that before. Is a girl born to betray her sisters? Or taught to? “Fear is powerful,” I say. “It can make you blind – if you believe its lies.” She turns to me again, smiling now. Her teeth are sharp.

“Very good, little damsel,” she says. “I will offer you a choice.”

“You may return to your sisters – as the girl who survived. The girl with the one true heart to the sea. You will carry the gift of rain until the next generation is born, and the cycle begins again.”

“Or-“ she tilts her head – “You may stay here. Free, but alone. The final and truest sacrifice to the sea.”

“What do you choose, little damsel?”

I know my answer before she finished the question. Some say I returned. Others say I never left the sea.

Only the rain remembers the truth.