The Sun Always Shines (Even When It’s Raining)

Lyla's Her boots clicked against the old cobblestones – tap, tap, tap. The sound bounced between the buildings lining Main Street, those ancient brick beauties from back when people actually cared what things looked like. Not like the glass-and-steel boxes they were throwing up downtown these days. These buildings had stories etched into their walls, decades of city grime in their pores.

God, she loved mornings like this. The sky stretched endless and blue above the old brick buildings, and somewhere nearby, coffee was brewing – that rich, bitter scent that made her stomach growl even though she'd already had breakfast. Twice, actually. Her mom always said Lyla had the appetite of a teenager, even now at twenty-five.

She couldn't stop grinning. It was that kind of day. You know the ones – where the world feels scrubbed clean and brand new, like anything could happen. Like maybe you'd turn a corner and find a street fair that wasn't there yesterday, or bump into that friend you hadn't seen since high school or discover a tiny bookshop that somehow sold exactly what you'd been looking for.

"Morning, Mrs. H!" she called out, waving at the old woman who was, predictably, fussing with her flowerpots. Mrs. Hawthorne had been tending those same flowers since... well, probably since before Lyla was born. Today she was wrestling with an overenthusiastic petunia, her gardening gloves stained with years of loving care. The flower shop's bell tinkled in the breeze – that same bell that had announced Lyla's childhood visits for penny candy and popsicles on hot summer days.

Mrs. Hawthorne straightened up, pushing her glasses up her nose with dirt-smudged fingers. The sun caught Mrs. H's hair just right, making it shimmer like spun sugar. She squinted up at Lyla, trying to look stern but failing miserably.

"Lord, child. Who's got energy for all that bounce this early?"

Lyla just laughed – they did this every morning, like clockwork. She skipped past, humming some half-remembered tune from last night's Netflix binge, her curls doing their usual morning dance.

Then the wind hit. It came out of nowhere, whipping around the corner like it had a grudge to settle. Her skirt went crazy, and those fluffy white clouds? They turned mean. Fast. The kind of gray that means business. Lyla stopped mid-step and blinked upward, squinting in surprise.

"Oh no, not today!" she groaned, but her grin was still there. "I had my heart set on a picnic in the park."

Splat. A raindrop hit her right on the nose.

Most people would've run for cover. Not Lyla. She dug around in her bag until she found it – her grandmother's umbrella, pink with white dots, the handle slightly worn where countless hands had gripped it. She twirled it open like she was Mary Poppins about to take flight.

"That all you got?" she taunted the sky.

Bad move. The rain came down like someone had turned on a fire hose. Her poor red boots – her absolute favorites, the ones she'd scored at that crazy thrift store sale – made sad little squeaking noises with every step. Squish-squeak, squish-squeak.

A young man, caught in the rain without an umbrella, rushed to pass her by, his expression one of utter dread.

Lyla grinned at him. "You know, rain's just a way for the world to get a good rinse!" she said. "Like a nice wash to freshen up your day. If you see it that way, it's not so bad!"

He stopped. Turned. Blinked at her like she'd started speaking in tongues. But then – and this was her favorite part – his face changed. Just a little. Just enough. His mouth twitched.

"Is that right?" He glanced up at the sky, then back at her. "Seems like it's doing a thorough job today."

Lyla laughed and started singing – badly, she knew, but who cared? "Rain, rain, don't go away, makes the world all shiny today!" The words tumbled out, that silly song Mom always sang while mixing cookie dough. Back when Lyla was just a pipsqueak perched on the kitchen counter, stealing chocolate chips when Mom wasn't looking.

But as the rain poured down harder, something strange happened.

The clouds... moved. Not like normal clouds. They swirled and twisted, like they were trying to dance along. The wind picked up, but it wasn't angry anymore – it felt playful, like a puppy that wants to play chase. Her umbrella spun in her hands.

Lyla froze. Wait. What was happening?

This was real, right? The rain doing its thing, the wind getting frisky, those clouds up there putting on a whole circus act. Like the weather had caught whatever crazy bug she had.

Screw it.

She snapped her umbrella shut.

The rain hit her like a water balloon fight gone wild. Her hair turned into a soppy mess, curls plastered everywhere, and her skirt might as well have been painted on. But man, did it feel good. She flung out her arms and spun like she was five years old again. The storm? It spun right along with her, lightning pulsing like a slow-motion strobe light, the wind wrapping around her like it wanted to dance. Even the thunder seemed to keep time with her movements.

For a moment – she had no idea how long – everything was perfect. Not the boring kind of perfect, but the wild, messy, soaking-wet kind of perfect that you can't plan for.

The rain started letting up, doing that thing where it gets lazy and soft. Sunlight snuck through the clouds, turning all those raindrops into tiny disco balls. Everything sparkled like someone had dumped a craft store's worth of glitter over the world.

"Well, that was wild," Lyla muttered, probably looking like something the cat dragged in. Twice.

The trees gave one last shake, leaves rustling like they were waving goodbye.

She squelched her way home, grinning like a fool. Her dress was toast, her hair looked like she'd stuck her finger in an electrical socket, and she was pretty sure there was a small pond in each boot. Worth it.

But she felt light, bubbly, like she'd stumbled into a secret: maybe the weather, like life, wasn't something that happened to you. Maybe it was something you could dance with.

She passed Mr. Peterson's house and had to do a double take. There he was, the grumpiest man on the block, jumping in puddles with his little girl. Both of them were laughing.

Even Mrs. Hawthorne's petunias seemed to stand a little straighter, rain dripping from their petals like tiny diamonds.

Sometimes, Lyla thought, you just had to look at things differently. The sun was always there, even behind the darkest clouds. You just had to be willing to dance in the rain until it came out again.

She hummed all the way home, leaving a trail of puddles behind her. Tomorrow, she'd have to make more sandwiches. But somehow, that didn't seem like such a bad thing anymore.