The Old Man in the Rain

The wind was picking up again. He could smell it; the rain, heavy in the air. It would come soon enough, soaking the landscape in cold, weary wetness. No matter.  He was almost done. The long work She set Him out on, so many nights and days ago.

He paused, leaning on the oak stick, giving His aching knee some respite. He surveyed the long work. He had no particular understanding of why it was so important. She had been working on it long before He had come along. She had asked Him to finish it. She breathed. Then She didn’t.

So here He was. Finishing the work. He stooped to grab the twisted, colourful cable, and connected it to the covered conduit next to Him.

A single, greasy raindrop landed on the back of His rough, wrinkled hand. The rain was here. He turned the red circular dial, just as She’d shown Him. A low, growling hum began to build.

The white, whithering hairs on the back of His neck stood up. He reached for the board switch. Cautiously watching the imposing dark cloud rolling in over the valley, He flicked the switch.

And the World exploded in colour and light.

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