Wind howls and leather boots plunge through the morass. A figure walks through the downpour, silent and in thoughts, contemplating God and the world.
«Who walks?»
He.
«Who is He?»
He is an ordinary person. He is wearing ordinary clothes: ordinary leather boots, an ordinary chestnut-colored shirt, ordinary dirty black pants and an ordinary formerly white cloak.
He looks around. And in his field of view there is a mass of grey. As many different shades are known to man, as many can he spot. And as his gaze sways through his surroundings, he notices.
«What did you notice?»
The buildings are grey. As are the streets. The clothes of those passing by as well. And above all, the emotions.
«What are you thinking?»
He continues his march undisturbed. On his face there are no emotions to be seen, his hair shadowing his eyes. And while he advances, the rain grows fiercer. Tiny spheres trickle down his skin. Landing on his form, they adhere lazily to gravity's will. Flowing through his hair, they drip from the tips.
He does not mind. He has experienced that same sensation countless times throughout his life, and he is used to it.
«That often?»
«Yes. So many times.»
It is normal. It is calming. It is soothing. When he was a child, the rain was his ally. It comforted him, when he was sad. It shared his joy. It hid his tears.
«It did?»
«It did. In the past.»
His closed eyes open and what he sees has remained the same. An ocean of grey. He feels as if it could swallow him whole at any moment. Yet his heartbeat remains calm and undeterred. As with everything else, he is used to that too.
The rain has not let up for a long time. He never witnessed it once in his life. Absently, he wonders where all the water disappears to. The ground is long overloaded.
«Maybe it vanishes into thin air?»
«...»
To witness the torrents receding, he would have had to live a thousand life times. Because the rain has not let up for that long. Not last year, not the last decade, not the last millennia and not the last myriad.
«For such a long time.»
The future will mirror the past. The rain will not let up for a long time. Not next year, not the next decade, not the next millennia and not the next myriad.
«For so long?»
The entire time, he continued to walk forward. Does he have a goal? Where is it?
He sets one foot in front of the other. He repeats that motion with the sides reversed. He does so again.
«How much time has passed?»
He does not know. Perhaps an hour. Or maybe ten times that. Less than a day?
«...»
«Probably.»
Through the building's windows, silhouettes are visible. They follow their daily chores or remain idle. The droplets falling from the heavens constantly act to disperse and stir up the budding fog. Visibility is very slight and not even those mere meters away from him are recognizable.
«Why not?»
Because that is the rain's nature. It is neutral. It is obscuring. It treats everything the same.
The figures flowing by do not possess features. Hats are drawn deep into faces. A broken umbrella is flung through the air.
Just then, in an insignificant moment in time there happens a miracle. His feet ground to a halt as he stops. He hears nothing. He sees nothing. And he feels nothing on his skin. He opens his eyes, they had been closed on instinct.
His surroundings are dim. They are not bright in the least, yet he feels blinded. He looks around and up into the sky. There, slowly and steadily, a white flower falls to the ground. It is in mid-air. While floating, its petals crease and fold, as if opening and closing in an enthralling cycle. As it finally touches the wet ground, it soaks full of water faster than he was able to blink. When his eyes open again, it is gone.
«Who is she?»
He raises his head and strains his eyes. He hears a voice, so quiet, so infinitely soft. His eyes widen as he stares directly through the breached clouds into the open sky. His mind recognizes her. A shining winged figure descends from the heavens.
«Who is she?»
«It's her, Angel.»
The figure stares down. He stares in awe for long moments, before his mind notices the discrepancies. The dark color scheme, her indifferent gaze. His pupils dilate a fraction.
«She, she is the same..!»
«The same as what?»
A cold gaze. A ruthless stare. The indifferent eyes. He has seen them before. Not in the true sense of the word, but figuratively. In every drop that spilled onto his form day after day.
He inadvertently stumbles backwards. His right boot crushes a lizard, curiously ambling around the drying dirt. He notices and looks to the ground.
«A salamander?»
«A Salamander.»
Deep purple liquid flows from its wounds. He turns away, back to the sky. She is smiling. The corners of her lips are turned up in haughty, malicious joy. Yet-
««Beautiful.»»
Wind howls and the dark clouds drift together. The surroundings sink back into mist and familiar fluid returns to reclaim its territory. The winged figure is gone. He closes his eyes. He hears the rain. He feels the rain. The miracle has passed.
He resumes his pace and soon enough, it is as though nothing had happened.
«But that is untrue, is it not?»
He walks along the path silently. The buildings, streets, clothes and emotions are as always-
«Grey.»
«What is grey?»
«All.»
As he continues his way, the shadows hushing through the streets not unnoticed, he makes up his mind.
«The rain is our identity.»
«...»
«It hides us. It feels with us. It supports us.»
«...»
«This is not your home. You would not understand.»
«What makes you say that?»
The man turns around and stops in his tracks. Behind him there stands a figure. A stranger, her eyes not unkind, a peculiar glint inside them. He does not recognize it.
«What is it that you want from me?»
«You were speaking with me, though?»
«I was not.»
«Whom were you conversing with, then?»
He looks to his side. He looks around. He looks to the ground and then up to the sky.
There is nothing. The street is empty.