Still

A soft patter beats against the glass, relentless and deafening. It doesn't end, it doesn't stop, it just is, a blurring of the cold surface, waving the beyond back and forth in its incessant refraction.

The air is still inside, empty and dark. The apartment feels vacant, the absence of lighting inviting terrors into the deep shadows in the far corners. Nothing is there, just the gentle hum of a computer, and the nebulous whisper of the ventilation system.

The fingerprints on the glass are little mazes, sharper and more defined than the smudged landscape outside. Their little walls enchant and dance, tearing your gaze down its minute corridors. The fog of your breath hides it for a moment, before it fades back into view.

The surface is steel against your forehead, the thin layer of grease on your skin slides across the window as you press up against it. A chill runs through your body as you slowly absorb the temperature of the cool outside.

It rains.

It’s still raining.

Little streams run rampant through the bare dirt, carving and carrying away bright sediment. It flows down the hill, and onto the road next to it, pooling there, swallowing the dark pavement in a flood of orange. The handlebars of a rusty bike poke up from the depths, and glimmer in the overcast light.

You pull your head back from the window, and it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust back to the darkness. Another day at home, another day inside.

It never stops raining.

It’s still there...