As Mr. Frankie played "When It Rains," it echoed softly in my ears at noon on the sixteenth day of the first lunar month. The sky was a light ink color, at the end of Stevenson Road, where the sea met the sky, layers of clouds piled up like an oil painting. My mood was like the music and the painting, drifting and ethereal, vast and deep, with a thick sense of nostalgia and reluctance to part with Vancouver swirling in my heart.

Every thought and every memory was like the gathering of water droplets of hydrogen and oxygen. The dry sky of the western desert, with clear and sunny weather, had hardly ever seen decent rain; the occasional droplets that fell from the sky seemed to carry countless grievances and helplessness, reluctantly leaving the heavens. Just like myself, who would willingly leave their homeland and travel alone to a distant place?

I was about to embark on the journey back home, with family expectations and joy, yet I was also troubled by the constraints and environmental pollution everywhere, instantly clouding my heart with sorrow. The damp rain of Vancouver, from the beginning of winter to early summer of the following year, lingered for almost half a year, with the romantic ambiance of rainy days drowning some of the helplessness of wandering in a foreign land. Just like the tone of this saxophone piece "When It Rains," where metal meets human breath, strong and soft, blending strength and gentleness, the romantic melody overcomes the loneliness of wandering.

Though the desert on the east coast of the Pacific is cloudless, it is about to rain, with tree tops swaying; on the west coast of the Pacific, clouds roll and unfold, containing freedom in the moisture, washing away the dullness. I stood at the bus stop, and when two buses whizzed past me without stopping, I was surprised and opened the GPS, only to realize that I, a wanderer, was too immersed in the dual sorrow of parting and had stood at the wrong stop. With little experience taking the bus, I thought I could easily catch the bus near my home, but it turned out that all the "I thought" could be missed, just like missed love, opportunities, and people. When it rains, the past emerges, feeling emotions in the rain, reminiscing about old friends as the water splashes open. What is lost should be lost. Rainwater, clouds, rivers, and seas, in an endless cycle. What I thought was missed, perhaps we will reunite in another realm and sky...