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.