Talking to the sky

The rain stayed gone.

Clear blue sky when she followed her father back to the cemetery, the grass still slick but already drying in the sudden light. No clouds in sight as they left the grave behind and walked to the car, black shoes leaving wet marks that vanished almost as soon as they made them. The roads were dry by the time they got home, puddles shrinking into dark stains.

It was dry as she finished her frozen dinner at the kitchen table. The karaage and rice tasted of nothing. The microwave had beeped too loudly; now the only noise was the low rustle of trees outside and the occasional car hissing past on the street. The weather forecast, from the presenter on the TV, showed cheerful icons of rainclouds and umbrellas lined up for the whole week. Outside the window behind it, the sky stayed stubbornly clear.

She kept thinking about the man on the hill. She’d pushed past the flashy parts at first – the way he’d saved her from falling in the blink of an eye, the way he’d perched on the rail like a bird. Those had felt like a trick, some weird dream her brain had invented to keep her from crying. But the wish part wouldn’t leave her alone. The genie – without a name, that was all she could think to call him – had snapped his fingers, and the sky had opened. No more rain. No more drumming on umbrellas or soaking her dress.​

Power like that was unprecedented. It couldn’t exist. The Kaen were strong, and the hero who fought them had a similar fire that lit up the skies, but even his flames never reached as high as the clouds. To clear out the entire sky for miles with a flick of his wrist… The genie was something else entirely. Kumi couldn’t stop thinking about him, and about her wish.

As the day came to a close, Kumi’s father ushered her to her room for the night. His voice was gentle but tired around the edges. She got into bed and hugged the blanket tight around herself. She didn’t have school until tomorrow morning, so there wasn’t even the usual threat of being tired to make her shut her eyes and behave.

Floorboards creaked in the hallway. Dad’s shadow blocked the thin bar of light under her door for a moment before it swung open. He stepped in carrying the dim glow with him, lines around his eyes deeper than they had been last week.

“Are you going to be okay on your own?” he asked. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to kiss her forehead, smoothing a hand over her hair the way Mum used to. His palm was warm and a little shaky. Kumi stared up at the ceiling, at the rectangle of brightness cast by the hallway light and swallowed.

“Dad,” she blurted, before she could stop herself, “do you think we’ll ever get over Mum not being around?” For a moment, he didn’t answer. She felt his hand still on her hair.

“Of course we will,” he said finally. His voice sounded careful, like he was walking over ice. “As long as I still have you.” He kissed her forehead again before leaving.

“Goodnight, Kumi,” he said, and his voice caught on the last syllable. “Call me if you need anything.” She hadn’t called.

Now the house was quiet. The TV in the living room had gone off a while ago; the light under Dad’s door seeped out as a pale line for a few minutes more and then disappeared. Pipes clicked once in the walls. Somewhere, the fridge hummed and then fell silent. The only steady sound left was the faint ticking of the clock and her own heartbeat in her ears. The rain still hadn’t come back.

She pushed the covers down and sat up. The room smelled like laundry powder and the too-clean, slightly bitter scent of the flowers people had sent, crowding her desk and windowsill in too-bright colours. Cards with Sorry for your loss and thinking of you in curly handwriting from other kids in her class leaned against vases. Mum’s favourite cardigan still hung from the back of Kumi’s chair, sleeves folded over themselves like waiting arms.

Outside the closed curtains, the sky stayed clear. Kumi stared at the fabric, at the faint glow of streetlights filtering through. Her fingers tightened on the blanket. All she could think was, if that man had really granted that silly wish, she’d just wasted the opportunity of a lifetime.

And then there was the line: “I’ll do what I can with that.” That felt strange. Like he hadn’t planned on granting the wish exactly as she’d spoken it. Maybe there was some cost left to pay that she hadn’t realised yet. Or maybe he’d given her more than the wish had even asked for.​

She glanced at the red lily on her drawer. It had been half-dead before – petals drooping, stem bent – but the genie had handed it back to her standing straight and vivid, as if he’d rewound time on it completely. If it was even the same flower. Past all the snark and the winking and the weirdness, he seemed almost… decent. A little off-putting, sure, but his heart had felt like it was in the right place.​

Maybe he’d done more for her than just changing the colours in the sky. Maybe right now, without knowing it, she was the one holding the sky in place, the one with her hands on the switch that kept the rain at bay.

The thought sat in her chest, heavy and electric at the same time, until she couldn’t stay lying down anymore. Kumi swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her toes curled against the cold wooden floor.

What if it was just a coincidence, she thought. Clouds couldn’t be predicted perfectly. The weather people on TV were wrong all the time, with their smiling arrows and polite apologies. Maybe the rain had just decided to stop on its own, as it always did after some time.

Except she kept seeing it in her head: the sky tearing open like ripped paper, the sun punching straight through as soon as he snapped his fingers. The way the sound of the rain had dropped away in an instant, like someone had flipped a switch behind the clouds. The way the air had felt lighter around her shoulders, as if the whole sky had breathed with her and not just over her.

Her chest fizzed with something that wasn’t quite fear and wasn’t quite excitement – a prickly, buzzing feeling that made her fingers twitch. If she stayed still, it felt like it would crawl right out of her skin.

Kumi padded over to the window and pushed the curtain aside. Streetlights washed the room in a weak orange glow. Outside, the roofs of the houses across the road shone dully where they were still wet, but their tiles were uncovered now – no rain, no moving grey sheet between her and the world. The sky was dark and hard-looking, a deep slab of navy, but in the gaps between heavy shapes she could see tiny, scattered stars, sharp as pinpricks.

She unlatched the window and eased it open. Cold air punched into the room, sharp enough to make her gasp. It rushed past her face and down her arms, sliding under the sleeves of her pyjamas until her skin pebbled with goosebumps. The curtains billowed inward with it, soft and sudden, brushing her cheek like a hand.

Kumi stuck her hand out into the night. The air was empty and still, just ordinary chill sitting on her fingers. Her heart thudded.

“I wish it would snow,” she whispered, feeling very stupid and very small – like a little kid asking Santa for something she already knew she couldn’t have. She snapped her fingers anyway – just to see if it was a part of the trick. Of course, nothing happened. Her breath puffed into the dark in a thin stream and faded. The streetlamp hummed. Somewhere far away, a car door slammed.

Then, right in front of her, the air seemed to thicken. A puff of white appeared out of nowhere – a small, fluffy cloud, no bigger than her own head, hanging just outside the glass as if it had been there all along and only now decided to show itself. It glowed faintly in the streetlight, edges soft and tumbling like cotton stuffed too full. Kumi’s mouth fell open. Her fingers dug into the windowsill.

“No way,” she breathed.

The little cloud drifted closer until it almost bumped the window frame. Tiny snowflakes spilt out of its underside, a gentle, steady sprinkle. They landed on the sill and on the back of her hand - cold pinpricks that melted at once, leaving tiny wet dots on her skin.

She yanked her hand back on instinct and slammed the window shut. The cloud hovered there, offended, flattening slightly against the glass. Then, slowly, it sagged and sank, its edges fraying. It slid down out of sight, dissolving into the darkness below. Kumi chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“Okay,” she whispered to the empty room. With magic like that, what else could there be? She shoved the window back up, slower this time. The night pressed in, cold and waiting. “Wind,” she tried, feeling ridiculous. “I wish there was wind.” A snap of the fingers.

The breeze slid through the open gap before the sound had even finished, cool fingers slipping past her wrist. It ruffled her fringe and fluttered the pages of the book on her desk. The curtain billowed inward, smacking lightly against her shoulder. The finger snapping wasn’t doing anything, but the magic was very real. Her eyes widened.

“Stronger,” she said, and the wind obeyed. It rose to a gust that shoved the curtain almost horizontal and sent a pencil rolling off her desk with a clatter. Papers rustled. A flower card toppled over. Kumi grabbed the curtain with both hands, hair whipping around her face.

“Stop!” she yelped. The air stilled. The curtain sagged back down, hanging limp and ordinary. Kumi stood there for a moment, breathing hard. Her fingers tingled.

“Uh…” She squinted up at the slice of sky she could see from her window. Clouds drifted past, high and thin. Her mind skittered back to the hill, to the way the rain had disappeared at her words. Now, were her words even needed?

Kumi didn’t say the wish aloud this time. She just held her arm out straight and aimed it at the window.​ She thought about the little cloud from a minute ago: its size, its round, lumpy shape, the way it had glowed in the streetlight like a tiny lamp. She pictured it hanging there outside the glass again, as clearly as she could, and kept her mouth firmly shut.​ The air shimmered.

Another baby cloud popped into existence in almost the exact same spot, as if she’d hit copy and paste on the sky. It bobbed once, like it was getting its balance, then settled into a slow float. Thin droplets of rain tumbled from its underside onto the sill in a gentle, steady patter, darkening the wood in tiny, shimmering dots.​

“Okay,” she breathed, a shaky laugh catching in her throat. “I’m magic.” There was nothing else to conclude. Beyond her and her baby cloud, the world stayed calm. She wasn’t messing with anything important – this was harmless fun.

Her hands were shaking. She didn’t notice until she tried to wipe the droplets off the sill, and her fingers wouldn’t quite behave, smearing cold wetness into little streaks instead of clearing it.

She pictured the man on the hill, his fedora, his green eyes, his generous wish. He’d given her the ability to choose not just when it rained, but when it snowed and when the wind blew at all.

She didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment she’d been in front of the window, testing the edges of what she could do, and the next her vision broke open again in the same place, as if no time had passed at all. For a second, it occurred to her that it could all have been a dream.

Thin sunlight was already leaking around the edge of the curtain and painting a pale stripe across her ceiling. The room smelled faintly of damp and flowers. For a moment, she lay very still, wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing: the snow, the wind, the cloud small enough to fit in her hands.

Then she lifted her hand, pointed it vaguely towards the closed curtain, and thought, very clearly, cloud. A single puff of white began to form somewhere beyond the curtain, nudging itself into the slice of sky her window could see. It drifted lazily into view – small, white, and round. Kumi shook her head awake.

“It wasn’t a dream,” she whispered. “Rain,” she affirmed, testing the next step. A light sprinkle fell from the underside of the cloud, a curtain of silver threads barely thick enough to blur the view. Kumi grinned despite herself. It felt wrong to grin the day after a funeral, but the corners of her mouth wouldn’t listen. She raised her hand and thought, very firmly, stop. The tiny shower cut off. The cloud floated, harmless and fat, in the brightening blue. A rap of knuckles on her door made her jump. Her little cloud frayed at the edges.

“Kumi?” Dad called. “Are you up?” She dropped her hand. The cloud faded into nothingness.

“Yeah,” she said, throat suddenly tight. “I’m up.”

The door opened a crack. Dad leaned in, shirt creased, eyes ringed in tired grey. He glanced at the open curtain, the clear sky beyond it, and something unreadable flickered across his face.

“The rain’s still gone. That’s not good,” he murmured, keeping quiet to himself. Then, louder: “I’ll make breakfast. Come down when you’re ready, okay?”

“Okay,” Kumi said. She didn’t mention the rain. Or the snow. Or the wish. When his footsteps faded down the stairs, she looked back at the sky and lifted her hand. Her little cloud reappeared on command, popping back into place as if it had just been waiting for her to think of it again. Kumi spread her fingers out and thought, bigger. The cloud expanded like a balloon being filled with air. A giggle bubbled up in her chest, surprising her.

Then the cloud burst with a wet little splat, a splash of blue water dropping out of nowhere and smacking against the glass before it ran down in crooked lines.

“Yo, Kumi! You there?” a feisty girl’s voice yelled from down below. Kumi darted forward and shoved the window up. Down on the pavement, Rin stood beneath the Kaen siren pole with Yuna beside her, both in raincoats with their hoods down. Rin held a bright orange water pistol pointed straight at the window, grinning – the “weapon” she’d sworn to keep by her bed in case a Kaen ever showed up on their street. Another squeeze of the trigger sent a spray right into Kumi’s face. “Got you!” Rin called.

“What? Rin? What are you doing?” Kumi spluttered, wiping drops from her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Kumi. Rin planned this all herself,” Yuna said. “We wanted to check on you.”

“We’re here to cheer you up,” Rin said firmly, pumping the water gun again. “Come down!”

Kumi glanced past them, watching the wind stir the trees at the end of the street. A wicked idea sparked. She focused on the air around Yuna and Rin. Wind, she thought. A sudden gust rushed down the street, slamming into the two girls. Their raincoats snapped and flapped around them; Yuna squealed and grabbed her hood; Rin staggered a step sideways, clutching her water pistol as if it might fly away. A wide grin spread across Kumi’s face.

“Okay!” she shouted down. “I’ll be down in a minute!”

Kumi yanked on clean clothes as fast as she could, nearly tripping over the leg of her desk chair. She skipped past the red lily on her drawer, its sweet, clean smell catching at the edge of her breath for half a second before she forced herself toward the door. Dad was at the kitchen counter, staring into a mug of coffee that had probably gone cold. When she padded past, he blinked and tried to smile.

“You’re going out?” he asked.

“Yuna and Rin are here,” Kumi said. Her hand tightened on the strap of her bag.

“That's good. You can play with them.” He nodded, as if he’d just decided something. “I was thinking… maybe we could go out for dinner tonight. Just the two of us. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Kumi hesitated. The idea of sitting across from him at a restaurant, just the two of them at a table with an empty seat, made her stomach twist. But his eyes were hopeful in a way that hurt to look at.

“Okay,” she said. His shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Wonderful. Don’t forget to take your umbrella,” he added automatically, then glanced at the sunlight pouring in through the window and gave a puzzled little huff. “Well. Just in case.”

“I’ll be fine,” Kumi said, and slipped on her shoes, leaving both her umbrella and raincoat behind.

Outside, the morning felt sharper than usual. The air still had that after‑rain smell – wet pavement, leaf‑muddiness – but the sky was a clear, almost careless blue. The forecast had promised a week of storms, but the city had got sunshine instead.

Yuna and Rin were waiting at the end of the path. Yuna’s raincoat was buttoned all the way up despite the weather, her dark hair pulled back in a neat, low ponytail under the hood. Rin’s hung open, bright yellow over her T‑shirt, her longer reddish‑brown hair whipping around her shoulders where the wind had caught it, water pistol dangling from one hand like a holstered weapon.

“Kumi, how are you feeling?” Yuna asked gently as soon as she was close enough. “You ran off yesterday. And then we didn’t see you after.”

“I’m…” Kumi started, then abandoned the sentence. The whole truth was too big and jagged to fit in her mouth. “Don’t worry about that.” She bounced once on her toes, nerves fizzing into something like excitement. “Guys, you have to see this.”

She stepped around them onto the pavement, lifted her arm over Rin’s head, and curled her fingers slowly, like she was squeezing an invisible sponge. Yuna and Rin followed her gaze up. A small grey cloud puffed into existence directly above Rin’s hood. One second, there was nothing; the next, a soft, round lump of vapour hovered there, darker than the morning sky.

“Wait a second...” Rin began. The cloud opened. A cold, heavy shower dumped straight onto her. Water poured down her hair and the back of her neck, splashed off her shoulders, and ran in streams off the hem of her raincoat. Rin shrieked and hunched, clutching her water pistol to her chest like a drowning kitten. Kumi relaxed her hand. The cloud thinned and vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Yuna stared at the empty patch of air where it had been. Rin shook herself like an animal, water flying everywhere. Then, very slowly, both girls turned to look at Kumi. Rin lifted the water pistol and, with great ceremony, sprayed Kumi full in the face.

“Hey!” Kumi spluttered, throwing up her hands. “What was that for?”

“What was that?” Rin yelled back. She kept the trigger held down in a long stream. Kumi danced on her toes to dodge, bringing her arms up to shield her face while Rin chased her around the path. “Have you been hanging out with Hiro behind our backs or something? Huh?”​ The water gun finally coughed and ran empty.

“No!” Kumi said, bringing her arms down. “A weird guy yesterday gave me powers because I wished for the rain to stop.”​ Yuna and Rin looked at each other.

“A weird guy?” Yuna said slowly.

“Yeah,” Kumi said. “He was a genie or something.”

They still looked unconvinced.

Kumi huffed, then raised her hand again. Right in front of them, at eye level, a tiny cloud popped into being – a soft, glowing puff, no bigger than a football. The girls gasped. Kumi curled her fingers gently. The cloud darkened and began to rain, a light, silver drizzle that pattered onto the path between their shoes.

Yuna’s eyes grew wide. “Kumi… Are you magic?”

“I’m telling you,” Kumi said. “The genie gave me powers!”

“What else can you do?” Yuna pestered, already stepping closer.

“Can we get powers like you?” Rin asked.

“Uh… I don’t know,” Kumi said. “He disappeared right after I made my wish.”

"Aw, man!"

“What else can you do?” Yuna asked again, softer this time.

“I can make it snow,” Kumi said, trying not to sound too pleased, “and use the wind.” The two girls stared at Kumi in disbelief. Then Yuna’s eyes narrowed as she started putting the pieces together.

“Hey, were you using the wind on us before you came down?” Yuna asked.

Kumi winked sweetly at her.

After Kumi filled Rin’s water pistol with rainwater upon request – summoning a tiny cloud directly above the barrel and letting it drip neatly into the tank – Rin clicked the cap shut with reverence and marched with it over her shoulder, while Yuna quietly steered them toward the park as the safest place to give Kumi’s new powers some space.

They cut through side streets and narrow alleys until the pavement opened out into the familiar stretch of grass and paths. Another Kaen siren pole stood at the corner of the park entrance; beyond it, trees ringed a wide lake, its surface still a little dull from last night’s storm. It was supposed to be the height of summer, hot and sticky, but the air around Kumi felt cool and buzzy instead. The girls claimed an empty patch of grass near a low tree close to the lake, bags dumped in a heap.

“Watch this,” Kumi said. She lifted her hand and thought, snow. Cold bloomed under her palm. A tight, white cloud formed right above their chosen spot and started spilling soft flakes, piling quickly on the grass in a perfect circle around them. Within seconds, there was a knee-deep patch of snow as wide as a classroom, sparkling under the summer sun while the rest of the park stayed green.​

“No way!” Rin squealed. Christmas had come early this year, it seemed. Yuna clapped a hand over her mouth, then dropped to her knees and started scooping.

They set to work. Yuna, precise and methodical, made a proper fort: packed walls, a little sloping roof, even a low “window” she carved with the edge of her hand. Rin mashed snow together into lopsided blocks and stacked them on top wherever she could reach, declaring them “defensive towers.” Kumi pulled handfuls in and out of existence as needed, thickening the base when the walls slumped.​

They built a snowman too – two big balls, a smaller one on top, twigs for arms, a bottle cap for a nose, a stray leaf for a crooked smile. Rin insisted on sticking her empty water pistol into the snowman’s “hand” like a blaster.

“This is Mr Snowball, the strongest snowman of today,” she announced. “He will guard the pit and solo the Kaen for all of us.” Yuna and Kumi laughed, breath puffing white in the little winter bubble she’d made. “Might put Hiro out of a job!” she chuckled. Kumi asked the cloud to coax out two perfectly blue crystal hailstones - smooth, faceted orbs that dropped into Rin's awaiting palm. Rin clambered up the snowman to place the eyes, but stretched too far and toppled it, his upper half falling splat on the terrain below. “Oops.”

"He wasn't that strong." Yuna only meant it as a joke.

Either the slander had set her off, or maybe it was because everyone had gotten too comfortable in the snow, but Rin decided some chaos was in order and got to work. She scooped up a handful of snow, compacted it into a tight ball, and hurled it straight at Yuna.

“Hey!” Yuna yelped as it splatted across her shoulder. She dug her own handful, fast and focused, and fired back. Within moments, the fort became the only cover. Snowballs flew in messy arcs, exploding against walls and coats. Kumi, grinning, willed a small cloud above Rin alone and told it to work overtime. Tiny pellets of snow chased Rin across the grass, pelting her hood and hair in a constant shower.

“Traitor!” Rin cried, half laughing, half outraged. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“No, you’ve got half of Mr Snowball on your team!” Kumi called back, sending another flurry after her.

Eventually, out of breath and soaked in meltwater, Rin flopped onto the snow and wheezed, “Time out! Time out!”

By then, Yuna had wandered closer to the lake. She crouched at the edge, fingertips skimming the surface and sending ripples out in rings. Fish flickered below, quick silver shadows under the murky green.

“Hey, Kumi,” she called. “Think you can freeze this into ice?” Kumi let Rin escape her personal storm and padded over to the bank. The lake spread out in front of them, wide and still, a mirror waiting for something to happen.

“I don’t know,” she said, feeling the fizz in her chest again. “Maybe.” She brought the snow cloud drifting over from the fort to hover above the water. Cold as ice, she thought. The air cooled around them, breath turning faintly visible. Snowflakes began to fall, slow and steady, speckling the lake’s surface. It wasn’t enough. The flakes melted almost as soon as they landed.

Bigger, Kumi thought. The cloud swelled, stretching until it covered everything within her peripheral vision. The sky over the lake turned white in a single, unnatural patch. Snow poured down faster, a thick curtain of white. The temperature dropped another notch. Goosebumps raced up Kumi’s arms. Yuna pointed.

“Look.”

A tiny shard of white clung stubbornly to the surface instead of vanishing. It spread, feathering outwards in delicate crystal lines. Another patch formed beside it, then another. Spiderweb cracks of ice raced across the lake, connecting, thickening, fusing into a solid sheet.​ Rin jogged over, panting, and skidded to a stop. “Whoa.”

Within moments, the whole visible surface had turned milky and opaque. The snow thinned. Kumi let the cloud dissolve; the air relaxed back towards summer, but the lake stayed sealed under a smooth, pale lid.

“Do you think it’s safe?” Kumi asked. Yuna answered without words. She stood, brushed snow off her knees, and carefully set one foot on the ice. It held. She added the other, then pushed off with a little gasp, sliding in a wobbly line away from the bank. Her face lit up, pure joy breaking through the grief-clouded tiredness.​

Kumi and Rin followed more cautiously. The ice was slick but not lethal; their trainers squeaked and slipped, and soon all three of them were sliding back and forth, arms flailing, grabbing at each other’s sleeves and shrieking whenever someone nearly went down. Yuna recovered first and, emboldened, started spinning in small, awkward circles, arms stretched out like a skating champion.

“I should’ve brought my skates today!” she cried. They weren’t alone for long. An older man walking his dog slowed to stare at the impossible winter patch and the frozen lake. The dog strained at the lead, nails scrabbling on the path. Children from another part of the park drifted over, parents in tow, drawn by the shouting and laughter.

“Is it real?” a little boy asked.

Kumi’s stomach twitched, but before she could panic, Rin laughed and called, “It’s fine! Come on, it’s solid!” She stamped a foot to prove it. The ice didn’t crack. The man hesitated, then stepped carefully onto the edge. When nothing happened, he shuffled out a little further. His dog slid beside him, paws splayed, tail wagging furiously. A girl in a pink coat joined them, then another kid, then a mum in office clothes who’d clearly meant to just watch but got dragged on.

Within minutes, half the park seemed to be on the ice. Shoes squeaked. Kids shrieked with delight. Adults laughed nervously and held hands to keep their balance; the wobbly ones slipped, yelped, and then hauled themselves back up, grinning like they hadn’t in ages.​

It looked, Kumi thought, like a real skating rink dropped into the middle of a summer day. The heat at the edge of the snow made a faint mist curl around the ice, like the whole scene was something out of a dream. Her chest tightened and warmed at the same time. She’d done this. She’d made something that wasn’t a mistake or an accident or a thing people whispered about in worried voices.​ For the first time in what felt like forever, the smile on her face didn’t feel wrong. She’d earned it. Standing there with her friends on a patch of impossible winter, listening to the echo of laughter over the frozen lake, Kumi realised this might be the first good day she’d had in a very long time.