There once was a goblin with a little glass jar who swore she could catch the best raindrops.
Not just any drops—no no—she only wanted the ones that laughed.
She would run out in the storm, hopping from puddle to puddle, holding her jar open.
When a raindrop fell just right and made a silly plop sound, she’d catch it.
She said those drops were special, the ones with jokes inside.
Over the years, her shelves filled with jars—each glowing faintly blue, humming little “heehee” noises on quiet nights.
And whenever her friends felt gloomy, she’d uncork a jar and let out one laughing raindrop to dance on their heads.
But here’s the secret:
Every fall, when the clouds roll heavy and the world sighs, the goblin sneaks out and tips her whole collection back into the sky.
That’s why autumn rain sometimes feels warm, silly, or like it’s pattering a rhythm only you can hear.
That’s her gift, starting the cycle over again.
One autumn, when the goblin tipped her shelves of laughing raindrops back into the sky, something strange happened.
Instead of scattering, the drops hung there—hovering above her head like a crown of blue sparks.
They whispered, all at once:
“We remember.”
The goblin blinked. “Remember what?”
The drops giggled: “Every head we’ve tapped, every joke we’ve told. Every time you freed us. We remember you.”
And then the sky opened like a curtain, and the goblin saw it:
A secret Rain Market tucked inside the stormclouds. Stalls made of mist. A frog vendor selling thunder in jars. A snail auctioneer shouting bids for lightning bolts. A troupe of raindrops juggling themselves in the corner.
She laughed until her sides hurt, wandering through this impossible carnival.
But when she asked if she could stay, the raindrops shook their heads.
“You belong below. We only come here when freed.”
The goblin tried to argue, but they tucked a single glowing drop into her pocket.
“Keep this one. Just one. When you need us most, uncork it. We’ll come back.”
She went home, bittersweet in her bones, the rain fading behind her.
But she still has that jar, tucked on the highest shelf, glowing softly whenever the clouds gather.
And on certain nights, when the rain falls just right, she swears she can hear the Market laughing overhead—frogs haggling, snails shouting, raindrops telling knock-knock jokes in the thunder.
For years the jar sat on her highest shelf, glowing faintly whenever storms passed overhead.
The goblin dusted it, muttered at it, sometimes sang lullabies to it when she thought nobody was listening.
But she never opened it.
Not yet.
Until one night, long after the frogs had fallen asleep and the moon was hiding, she sat by the window listening to a storm that wouldn’t quite break.
No lightning, no thunder—just a heavy sky groaning with something stuck.
She climbed up, took down the jar, and whispered:
“Alright. Joke’s on me. Let’s see what you’ve been saving.”
She uncorked it.
The drop didn’t fall. It expanded—a glowing sphere of blue laughter, swelling until her whole hut was filled with shimmering rain.
And there, right in front of her, opened the path back to the Rain Market.
This time the stalls were brighter, stranger: frogs balancing thunderclouds on their heads, snails sliding on lightning rails, raindrops juggling comets instead of themselves.
Everyone stopped when she stepped through.
The raindrops bowed. The frog vendor croaked: “She returned the laughs.”
The snail auctioneer rang a tiny bell: “She belongs.”
And for the first time, the goblin understood:
Every jar she ever tipped back into the sky had built this place.
Every drop she freed had remembered her kindness.
And now the Market itself wanted her to stay.
She laughed so hard she cried, and the Market laughed with her.
The storm outside finally broke, showering the earth below with rain that giggled when it landed.
Some say that’s why autumn storms feel different even now—like someone’s laughing with you, not at you.
And if you ever hear thunder that sounds like a goblin cackle… well.
Now you know who finally joined the Rain Market in the sky.