The Smell of Rain on the Rooftop
That year, I was eight years old, and I believed low-hanging clouds could hear people's voices.
Every afternoon after school, I would stand for a long time beside the window at the end of the hallway. From there, I could see the blue corrugated-metal roof of the house across the way, the old starfruit tree leaning to one side, and a patch of sky divided into crooked squares by electrical wires.
I didn't like the crowded schoolyard. The moment someone called my name loudly, both my ears would burn. So when my classmates rushed out the gate, I would slowly put my books away in my bag, waiting until the hallway was completely empty before leaving.
That afternoon, it rained.
Our teacher let the whole class go home early, but my mother still hadn't come to pick me up. I sat alone beneath the awning, hugging my red schoolbag with its worn-out strap. Rain fell thickly in front of me, turning the entire schoolyard into an opaque white curtain.
Suddenly, I heard a noise beneath the flame tree.
A drenched sparrow had one leg caught in a plastic cord. It struggled and struggled, beating its wings wildly, but the more it fought, the tighter the cord became.
I looked around. There was no one there.
If someone had been around, I probably would have pretended not to see it. But the bird kept looking at me. Its tiny black eyes trembled and shone in the rain.
I set down my bag and stepped out from beneath the awning.
The rain immediately soaked through my hair and collar. I knelt in the mud, my knees icy cold. The plastic cord was so thin it nearly disappeared among the blades of grass, and the bird's leg was smaller than my pinky finger.
I was afraid of hurting it. Afraid it would bite me. Afraid someone passing by would see me doing something strange.
But then I still reached out my hand.
“Don't be afraid,” I whispered. “I'm scared too.”
The bird probably didn't understand. It kept flapping its wings. I had to use my yellow hair clip to loosen the cord bit by bit. Every time the clip slipped, my heart leaped into my throat.
At last, the cord snapped free.
The bird lay motionless in my palm for a few seconds. Its body was weightless and cold as a leaf. I thought it had died, and I forgot to breathe.
Then it moved slightly.
Once. Twice.
It flapped its wings and flew up to perch on the lowest branch of the flame tree. Before flying away, it tilted its head and looked at me.
I didn't know whether it was thanking me. But I stood there in the rain, smiling to myself.
By the time my mother arrived, my school uniform dress was completely filthy. As she dried my hair, she asked:
“What did you do to get this wet?”
I looked up at the flame tree. The bird was gone, while the plastic cord still lay in the puddle beside it.
“Nothing.”
I still wasn't used to saying what I was thinking. But that night, before falling asleep, I heard the rain tapping on the roof and suddenly understood that some things, even when no one sees them, are still worth stepping out of one's shelter to do—even for a shy person.
Many years later, I had forgotten the name of the road leading to that school. I had even forgotten the color of my schoolbag and my teacher's face from those days.
Only the smell of rain from that afternoon remained.
Whenever I catch it, I remember the eight-year-old girl with mud-spattered knees, trembling hands, and a sparrow that flew away carrying with it the first piece of silence in her life.