The Drought

Summer died fifty years ago, and autumn never came. The sky was a hard shell of endless blue, unbroken by clouds, as if God had dipped His paintbrush in cobalt and forgotten to rinse it out. Heatwaves shimmered off the asphalt like restless ghosts, and the air tasted faintly of burnt rubber and dust—the stale breath of a town stuck in time.

Cedar Ridge had always been small, a thumbprint on the back roads of nowhere. There were farms, of course, though most had dried up and blown away with the last real rain. What remained were brittle corn stalks, blackened and skeletal, standing in neat rows like mourners at a graveside. The few farmers left mumbled about drought-resistant crops but spoke of miracles with the same dry hopelessness they reserved for paying taxes.

Rust scabs bloomed on the water towers, and the gas station on Main Street had stopped carrying windshield wiper fluid years ago—no need for it when the sky never wept. They still sold beer, though, and on days when the heat pressed down like a fist, the townsfolk gathered in the shade of the Sinclair station’s green dinosaur sign, cold cans sweating in their hands.

It was there, leaning against the faded scales of that prehistoric beast, that Tom Weaver saw the stranger for the first time.

The man came walking up the road from the south, where the horizon quivered like molten glass. He wore black—a suit crisp as a knife edge—and carried a battered leather suitcase in one hand. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, but there was something unsettling about him even from a distance. He didn’t stumble or waver in the heat the way normal men did. His stride was steady, purposeful, as if he carried winter in his pocket.

“Ain’t seen a salesman in years,” muttered Earl Granger, wiping sweat from his forehead with a grease-streaked rag. “What the hell’s he sellin’? Coffins?”

The men chuckled, low and uneasy, but Tom’s beer went sour on his tongue. Something about the stranger’s silhouette made his skin crawl—the sharp angles, the way shadows clung to him like cobwebs even in the brutal sunlight.

The man in black reached the edge of the group and tipped his hat politely. His eyes were a pale, icy blue, startling against the deep tan of his weathered face. He looked like someone who’d walked a long way and hadn’t found what he was looking for.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice smooth as polished stone. “Mighty warm today, isn’t it?”

Earl snorted. “Been warm every damn day since Truman was president. What’s it to you?”

The stranger’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, I’m just passin’ through. Thought maybe you fine folks could help me with a little business matter.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “What kind of business?”

The man set his suitcase down with a soft thud. The latches gleamed like silver teeth as he flicked them open. Inside, nestled against dark velvet, were rows of gleaming vials filled with liquid that shimmered like captured moonlight.

“I sell weather,” the man said simply.

There was a beat of stunned silence, followed by a bark of laughter from Earl. “Weather? You gotta be kiddin’ me. What’s next, bottled air?”

The stranger didn’t flinch. “Rain, snow, a cool breeze on a summer’s

day—I’ve got it all. Guaranteed to work or your money back.”

Tom stepped closer, curiosity prickling beneath his unease. He peered into the case, mesmerized by the swirling colors. One vial shimmered with iridescent blues and silvers, like the reflection of moonlight on water. Another glowed a fierce, fiery red.

“How much?” Tom asked before he could stop himself.

The stranger’s lips curved into that unsettling smile again. “For you, sir? A bargain. One memory, freely given.”

Tom blinked. “A memory?”

“Just a little thing,” the man assured him. “Something you won’t miss. In exchange, I’ll give you enough rain to fill your fields for a season.”

Earl spat on the ground. “This is bullshit. Come on, Tommy, let’s get outta here.”

But Tom’s heart was pounding. He thought of his farm, the cracked earth, the dying crops. Thought of his wife, Ellie, who hadn’t smiled in months because she knew what was coming—the bank foreclosure, the auction, the slow death of everything they’d built together.

“What kind of memory?” Tom asked hoarsely.

The stranger’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, just a small one. Perhaps the taste of your first kiss. The sound of your mother’s laughter. Nothing important.”

Tom hesitated, then nodded. “Deal.”

The man in black extended a gloved hand, and Tom shook it. The air shimmered between them, and for a moment, Tom felt a strange, dizzying tug deep in his chest—like something had been gently plucked from inside him.

When it was over, the stranger handed him a vial filled with shimmering blue liquid. “Pour this over your fields tonight,” he instructed. “And remember—the bargain is sealed.”

Tom barely heard him. His mind was already racing with visions of green fields and heavy rain.

That night, under a sky still stubbornly cloudless, Tom stood at the edge of his withered fields. The brittle corn stalks rattled faintly in the dry breeze, a chorus of death. His hands trembled as he uncorked the vial, the shimmering blue liquid catching what little starlight there was. The scent hit him first—clean, sharp, like distant lightning and wet pavement after a storm. It was a smell he hadn’t known in years.

Taking a deep breath, Tom tilted the vial and let the liquid trickle out. It splattered onto the cracked, dust-hardened earth with a faint hiss, vanishing almost instantly into the thirsty ground. He watched, breath tight in his chest, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

At first, there was only silence, thick and suffocating. Then the earth shuddered beneath his feet, subtle as a heartbeat but growing stronger. The low, primal growl of thunder rolled across the sky, distant yet powerful, like some ancient beast awakening from a long slumber. The wind shifted, cool and damp, carrying with it the promise of deliverance.

A single drop splattered against Tom’s forehead, cold and startling. He blinked, hardly daring to believe it. Another drop, then another, until the heavens opened with a sudden, furious roar. Rain came down in sheets—wild, relentless, drenching him in moments. The smell of wet earth rose around him, rich and intoxicating. Dust turned to mud beneath his boots as rivulets of water carved new paths through the parched ground.

Tom threw back his head and laughed, a raw, unhinged sound torn from somewhere deep inside him. He spread his arms wide, welcoming the downpour like a sinner at baptism. Water slicked his hair to his scalp and dripped from his chin, but he didn’t care. His laughter mingled with the storm, defiant and joyful.

The fields drank greedily, the dead husks of corn softening, straightening, as though waking from a long nightmare. Leaves unfurled, vibrant green bleeding back into lifeless stalks. The transformation was swift and almost magical—a resurrection right before his eyes.

By morning, the storm had passed, leaving the world washed clean and glistening under a pale new sun. Tom stood at the edge of his fields, now lush and vibrant, the corn standing tall and proud, shimmering with droplets of water. The air smelled sweet, alive.

The screen door creaked, and Ellie came running out of the house, bare feet splashing through puddles. Her face was radiant with disbelief, tears mingling with the remnants of rain.

“Tom, how—?” she gasped, her voice breaking with wonder.

He didn’t answer. Words seemed pointless. Instead, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, fierce and grateful, as if sealing a promise between them.

For the first time in years, Cedar Ridge felt alive—and hope, long buried beneath drought and despair, bloomed anew.

The stranger returned a week later.

Tom saw him standing by the gas station, his black suit immaculate despite the mud that clung to everyone else’s boots. He knew, deep down, that this was no coincidence.

“What do you want?” Tom demanded, his voice rough.

The man’s smile was razor-sharp. “Just checking in. How’s the farm?”

“It’s fine. Better than fine.”

“Glad to hear it.” The stranger’s eyes glittered. “But you see, Mr. Weaver, memories are tricky things. Sometimes, they’re connected in ways we don’t expect.”

Tom frowned. “What are you talking about?”

The man tilted his head. “Tell me, Tom—do you remember your wife’s name?”

Tom opened his mouth, then froze. A cold dread crept up his spine. He could see her face clearly—her bright eyes, the curve of her smile—but her name was gone, slipped through his fingers like water.

“No,” Tom whispered, horror dawning. “No, that’s not possible.”

“Ah,” the stranger said softly. “A shame. But as I said—a small thing. Nothing important.”

Tom lunged at him, but the man in black was already walking away, his silhouette dissolving into the shimmering heat.

The rain never came again. And neither did Tom’s wife—at least, not in any way that mattered. She was still there, smiling and talking, but her name was a hollow echo in Tom’s mind, forever lost to the drought.

And so Cedar Ridge baked under the unchanging sun, its people haunted by what they’d forgotten.