Under the Rain of Loneliness
Dmitry’s wife, Svetlana, had started behaving oddly. One day, she flew into a rage over nothing, accusing him of every sin imaginable—leaving dishes unwashed, socks in the wrong place, forgetting errands she’d grown tired of reminding him about. She claimed she was sick of cleaning up after him! And worst of all, he couldn’t even afford a new car. Dmitry suspected the issue wasn’t really about him. The sudden trips to the gym, the new wardrobe—none of it was for him. And then Svetlana left him for another man…
A year passed. One morning, Dmitry woke to the doorbell. Throwing on his dressing gown, he shuffled to the hallway and opened the door—only to freeze in disbelief.
A heavy grey cloud crept across the clear sky like an invisible hand smudging the blue with gloom. Fat raindrops drummed against the windscreen as Dmitry drove through the streets of an old riverside town, the downpour growing heavier by the minute. The radio hummed softly, the car’s warmth cocooning him, but outside, the world was cold and bleak, a reflection of the emptiness inside him.
The streets were nearly empty, only the occasional car speeding past. How many laps had he driven? Home felt stifling—his feet had carried him to the car almost on their own. Driving helped him think, sorting through his life like a puzzle missing its most crucial pieces. He turned onto a narrow side street, putting distance between himself and the town centre, away from the home haunted by memories.
A week ago, Svetlana came back. Her return dredged up old pain, reopening wounds she thought her tears could heal. She assumed he’d crumble at her apologies, ready to forget her betrayal and cruel words. When she left, she’d called him a loser, a worthless man—words that stuck like a knife between the ribs. Could anyone forget that?
A year ago, she’d blown up over nothing. Screamed about being tired of his mess, his forgetfulness, his failure to give her the life she wanted. “Four years without a holiday abroad! Can’t even get away to the coast!” she’d hurled at him. “I’m leaving for someone who can give me that.” He’d suspected her sudden gym obsession and new outfits weren’t for him. At home, she’d lounged in a tatty dressing gown, makeup-free—yet in public, she shone. He let her go. The grief nearly broke him, but he pushed through. Nights out with mates helped, but he quickly pulled himself together. Eventually, the pain faded.
At work, women perked up when they heard he was single. They didn’t need expensive gifts or foreign holidays—just a decent man. And Dmitry was a catch: in his prime, with a flat, a car, no alimony to pay. But none stirred his heart. He wasn’t against love, but the spark just wasn’t there. Even his mates drifted—their wives wary of a free Dmitry leading their husbands astray. He still visited, but always returned to an empty flat where no one waited.
They’d never had children. Dmitry hadn’t stressed—some couples take time. Svetlana had tests done; doctors said she was fine, just be patient. Yet during the divorce, she’d spat, “You’re pathetic! Couldn’t even pick a wife who can give you a child!” The words cut deep. Still, if she’d stayed, he’d have forgiven her. But she left.
Then, a year later, the doorbell rang. Dmitry opened it and stood rigid. Svetlana was on the porch, tearful, begging forgiveness. “I made a mistake, I love you,” she pleaded, clinging to him. He told her he forgave but couldn’t forget. How could he take her back after she’d left him for another, only returning because she’d been dumped? “Would you take me back if I’d left you?” he asked. Silence. He told her to collect her things and disappear. “I’ve got nowhere to go,” she whispered. “What about your mum’s place?” he shot back.
Back then, like tonight, he’d driven aimlessly until exhaustion took over. He’d decided: if she was still home when he returned, he’d try again. He knew her, after all. But the flat was empty. He wasn’t upset. He realised—nothing would’ve worked. She’d returned out of desperation, only to leave again if something better came along. How could trust ever be rebuilt?
The rain worsened; the windscreen wipers struggled to keep up. Driving in silence, Dmitry wrestled with his thoughts. One more lap, a quick stop for fuel, then home. At a traffic light, he halted. His gaze caught on a woman beneath a tree. The thin spring leaves did little to shield her—she was drenched, staring into nothing. The light turned green, but she stood motionless. Waiting for someone? Or, like him once, with nowhere left to go?
Dmitry drove on but then reversed. Lowering the window, he beeped. She didn’t flinch. “Need a lift?” he called. Slowly, she turned. Rain or tears on her face? “I can’t stay here long,” he urged. She shuffled forward and climbed in, her lips trembling in a failed attempt at a smile. “Seats’ll get soaked,” he mused, switching on the seat warmer.
She smoothed her dripping hair, tugging her soaked dress over her knees. “There’re tissues in the glovebox,” he said, pulling away. She took one, dabbing her face. Silence filled the car. “Where to?” he finally asked. “Nowhere,” she murmured. Her voice was soft but hollow. “Great,” he thought wryly. “Wait—the station,” she added. “Right. Running from the husband? Off to your mum’s? Where’s your luggage?” Her startled look made him pause. “Husband left two years ago. Mum’s gone—heart attack, six months after he walked out. Friends vanished when I borrowed money. They ring now but dread me asking again. Not that I need it now.”
Dmitry shifted uncomfortably. “Your daughter—did she recover?” he guessed. “No. Sold the flat for treatment in Switzerland. But she didn’t make it. I failed her.” Her eyes were dry, but sorrow clung to them. “How old was she?” “Would’ve been thirteen tomorrow. Bought us seaside tickets—she dreamed of it. Wanted her to keep fighting.” “Got them on you?” “Yes. Early train.” Dmitry said nothing. What could he say? He had everything—a home, a job, his health. She’d lost her child, her home, everyone. How did she even keep going?
“No kids of my own,” he offered. “Ex got pregnant young—someone else’s. She aborted it. Told me during the divorce to twist the knife. Called me a failure, ran off with some rich bloke.” He glanced at a petrol station ahead. “Fancy a coffee? I’m starving, and you could warm up.” She shrugged.
In the station café, they sat over two coffees and a plate of pastries. A man at the next table stared. Dmitry shifted, blocking his view. “Toilet?” she asked. He pointed to the sign. When she returned, her hair was combed, dried into soft dark waves. Early thirties, slender, fine-featured. The rain had aged her. “Masha loved crisps,” she said suddenly. “When she stopped eating them, I knew it was the end.” “How do you live with that?” Dmitry blurted. “No heart left. Just hollow space,” she pressed a hand to her chest.
Back in the car, she smelled of rain and flowers. Svetlana’s cloying perfume used to give him headaches. This woman sat quietly, as if fading into the air. “The vicar said souls linger forty days,” she murmured. “I feel Masha—her breath. Sometimes she calls me in dreams. D’you think she’ll come with me? She wanted the sea so much.” Dmitry pictured her on the train, a thin girl beside her. “But what then? No belongings.” “I’ll buy what I need. Doesn’t matter.” “You’ll still have to return. The grief won’t leave. Need money? I can spare some.” “No, thank you,” she said, finally meeting his eyes.
The station loomed ahead. “I’m Dmitry. You?” “Katherine. Mum called me Katya.” He parked. “Can’t stay long. Sure you’re going?” he pressed. “There’s a lounge inside—like a hotel. Get some proper sleep. Here.” He pushed notes into her hand. “I’ve got money,” she resisted. “Still need funds at the coast. Take it. Pay me back—gives me a reason to wait.” She hesitated, then pocketed it. “Thank you.” Stepping out, she vanished into the station.
The rain eased; clouds parted. Dmitry leaned back, eyes closed. Images flashed—Katya under the tree, drenched and numb;He turned the key in the ignition, her lingering warmth in the seat beside him, and wondered if this was how new beginnings felt—quiet, unexpected, and soaked in rain.
