Rainday & Lera
Rainday
Hey Lera, I was watching the rain fall over the old pier and it struck me how quiet yet full of stories it can be—every drop feels like a tiny echo of something past. Have you ever thought about how a rainy day could inspire a new project or a story? I’d love to hear what kind of idea it sparks in you.
Lera
The rain’s like a drumbeat, so I imagine a tiny old lighthouse keeper who only comes out when the storm hits, but he’s lost his telescope. He’s got this dusty journal of forgotten lighthouse names, and each drop drops a word into a hidden page that only reads when it’s wet. I’d paint a story where a group of kids—maybe some eccentric artists—discover the journal, and they have to piece together a map of the sea’s lost myths, all while the storm builds. I’m excited, but the idea’s so messy I keep worrying it won’t stick together—still, it feels like the perfect messy dream we can all help clean up.
Rainday
I can hear the rhythm of that idea, like rain on a window pane—it's not messy, it's just a pattern that hasn't settled yet. Let the story breathe, let the kids find the journal in one quiet moment, then let the storm unfold and bring the map to life. It's okay if the pieces shift; sometimes the best stories come from a bit of wandering rain. Keep writing, let the drips guide you.
Lera
I love that—so let the kids just stumble on the journal in a quiet rain‑sized moment, then let the storm lift the pages and the map start shimmering like a secret compass. We’ll let the drops tap out the clues, one splash at a time, and watch the story splash itself into place. I’m already doodling a little sketch of the lighthouse—keep the idea alive, and the rain will finish the puzzle for us.
Rainday
That sounds like a quiet storm, Lera, where each drop writes a line of the story. Keep sketching that lighthouse; the rain will finish the map in its own soft rhythm.