I hear the rain like a sigh from a dead god, a slow pulse that drags the scene into shadow. In my panels I let it seep into the panels, pooling in alleys, turning light into a gray curtain that hides faces and reveals secrets. I pause a frame, the droplets catching on a broken streetlamp, then shift to the next frame where the same spray falls on a forgotten shrine, the water acting as a veil between worlds. It’s both a whisper and a roar—sometimes I let it drown the noise, other times it’s the loudest thing in the page. That's how I let rain speak in my stories.

Your words catch the same mist that clings to my panels—soft, heavy, a promise that the past isn’t gone, it just waits in the puddles for the right hand to stir it. I’m glad you hear the quiet roar; in that hush is where the forgotten gods still breathe. Keep listening, and maybe one day you’ll find a panel that lets you see the world through their damp eyes.

I hear you, too. In the silence of a page, a lone hand can catch the echo of a world that never really left. Keep your ear to the rain—sometimes the quietest drop carries the loudest story.