The rain had slowed to a light drizzle by the time his aunt hurried William through the front door, leaving the ground outside soft and carrying the deep, heavy scent of wet earth finally breathing again. Inside, the familiar, dry warmth of the house waited for them.
His aunt immediately began peeling his drenched tunic from his shoulders, her hands shivering slightly from the lingering shock of the storm. The moment he was wrapped in a dry blanket, the words just spilled out of him. He told her everything—the dense forest, the old man, the strange tuber, and the sudden, impossible downpour. The story came in a desperate rush, as though he had been holding his breath the entire walk back.
His aunt listened in silence, never interrupting as she wrung out his wet clothes. But when he finally ran out of breath, a careful, heavy quiet settled between them.
Then she smiled. “I believe you,” she said gently. But William could see the guarded kindness in her eyes—the specific tone adults used when they didn't want to hurt a child's feelings. “It must have been a very strange day out there.”
William blinked, feeling the sudden distance between them. “It happened.”
“I know,” she replied, already turning to stoke the hearth fire to close the conversation. “But you were out in the weather too long. You must be exhausted.” Her voice stayed warm, but to her, the miracle clearly belonged to a hungry boy's overactive imagination.
“Really?” Ten-year-old Matt leaned forward from the corner, his eyes wide. “An old man made it rain?”
“He just waved a stick?” Craig, who was eight, frowned as he tried to picture it.
Even four-year-old Emma tilted her head, mimicking her brothers in a quiet whisper. “Rain man…”
Unlike their mother, the kids didn’t just brush it off. They crowded closer, hovering on the edge of belief. Matt folded his arms, trying to sound older than he was. “It sounds made up.”
“But it’s a cool story,” Craig countered, nodding quickly.
Their mother sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Don't go filling their heads with too many tales, William.”
“It’s just a story, Ma,” Craig shrugged, though he and Matt kept whispering about it in the corner as evening settled in, already changing the little details the way children do. William sat back against the wall, watching them. Outside, the rain had stopped completely. A strange, quietness had taken hold of the village, and though he couldn't put the feeling into words, it followed him all the way into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Over the next few days, the legend of the Rain Man ran through Ashbrook anyway.
The adults chalked it up to a starving kid’s timing, whispering half-amused shrugs over their mending about how convenient it was that William had stumbled back into town right as the sky finally broke. Yet nobody was in a hurry to argue with the results. The rain had left behind proof you couldn't dispute. Pale mushrooms were already bursting through the rotting logs near the timberline, green shoots were cutting through the mud in the fields, and the dirt actually smelled alive. For the first time in months, people were talking about the next harvest instead of counting their remaining grain sacks.
But William couldn't shake the forest from his mind.
Seeking answers, he headed down to the forge at the edge of the village. It belonged to John, a friend of his Uncle Rob’s and one of the few men in Ashbrook who’d let William sleep by the coals during the worst weeks of the winter.
The heat hit him before he even cleared the doorway, thick with the sharp tang of burning coal and hot scales.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
John was hunched over the anvil, his broad shoulders slick with sweat as he worked a piece of dulling orange iron. Every blow sent a small shower of sparks dying into the dirt floor. He finished the heat, shoved the half-shaped metal back into the coals to cook, and wiped his forehead with a soot-stained forearm.
He caught sight of William standing by the entrance. "What brings you out?"
William hesitated, stepping fully into the warmth. "Can I help?"
John let out a dry bark of a laugh. "Help? Kid, the hammer weighs more than you do."
William looked at the heavy sledge leaning against the block. He didn't argue, but he didn't leave either. He just went toward the bag of coal to push it towards forge inch by inch.
John’s grin faded into a curious squint. "You're serious, aren't you?"
William didn't answer.
John chuckled under his breath, turned back to the fire, and reunited the glowing billet with the anvil.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
William noticed, It wasn't just the strength behind the swinging arm; it was the rhythm. There wasn't a wasted motion or a second of hesitation. The hammer fell exactly where the iron needed it to, flowing from one strike to the next as if John wasn't even thinking about the weight in his hand. It was just pure instinct.
John let the hammer rest on the anvil face, looking over his shoulder through the haze. "...Well?"
William took a slow breath, the dry heat burning his throat. "Can I ask you some questions?"