The Man Who Planted Rain

Okay, so this story? It’s kinda weird. But also inspiring. Maybe even a little magical. I don’t know. But I swear it's real (or at least real enough for me to believe it).

There was this guy. Elias. Super old, like one of those quiet dudes who barely talks but when he does, it’s something deep. He lived in this dusty, dying village—like actually dying. No water, no people, just wind and regret. Honestly, the place looked like it gave up years ago.

And what did Elias do? Planted trees. Just… trees. In sand. With barely any water. I know, right?

People thought he was nuts. I mean, even I would’ve thought that. Who waters date seeds with leftover dishwater in 40-degree heat? Elias did. For YEARS. Like, 10? 20? Maybe 30? I lost track.

Anyway, for the longest time—nothing happened. Just this old man, walking out at dawn with a rusty bucket and a bag full of seeds, mumbling to himself probably. Dig. Pour. Cover. Walk. Repeat.

Then… boom. A sprout. Just one. Barely a leaf. But it was green. And alive. And people started whispering. "Maybe it's working?" "No way." "It's a fluke." But Elias didn’t care. He just kept planting. Like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

And here's the wild part: more grew. Like, actual trees. Not many, not at first. But enough to throw some shade (literally and figuratively). Birds came back. Bees buzzed. The air got… less dead?

Eventually, it rained. Just a little. Then a bit more. I cried. I’m not even ashamed. It was like the sky remembered how to weep again.

Elias? He sat under one of his trees, sipping mint tea like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t just convinced nature to give us a second chance.

He died that night. Peacefully. They say he smiled in his sleep.

Now there’s a whole forest where there was once nothing but sand and ghosts. They call it Elias’ Forest, or sometimes "The Place Where Rain Listens." I prefer that one.

Anyway. If you’re ever in the south, follow the breeze and the smell of green. You’ll find it.

I still can’t believe it. But also, I do.

One seed. One bucket. One man. That’s all it took.

And hey—this part always gets me. You know that tiny café near the bus stop in Merzoua? The one with the crooked sign and the chipped blue tables? That’s where I first heard about Elias. The owner just poured me this hot sweet tea, no sugar because they ran out, and he said, “Did you hear about the man who made it rain?” And I laughed. I thought it was a joke. Then he pointed out the window. And I saw them. The trees. Real ones. Dozens of them.

He told me about the time when the school closed down because there were no kids left. Everyone had left. Gone. Packed up. But Elias stayed. Just him and the sand and the wind. And his trees. Always the trees. He planted in silence. He never asked for help. He never asked why. He just… did it. Over and over.

Sometimes I wonder if he knew something we didn’t. Like some ancient truth. That life comes back when you believe hard enough. Or when you work for it, even when everyone’s laughing.

They have this bench there now. It’s not fancy. Just some old wood. But it has his name carved into it. I sat there for a while. And I swear, the wind changed. Like it was thanking him.

So yeah. That’s the story. Maybe it’s not perfect. Maybe it’s got holes or bits that sound too poetic. But honestly? I don’t care. I believe it. I felt it. And I think we all need stories like that right now. Stories with dirt and sweat and hope. Stories that aren’t polished, but real. Like Elias.

If you’re still reading this, go plant something. I mean it. A tree, a flower, a thought. Just plant it. And don’t wait for the rain. Maybe you’ll bring it.