The night settles thick and quiet over the Three Hills community, it’s too late to catch that wind rumored to whisk some people away with the day. The rain is not far behind to play the town lullaby on rooftops.
A lone figure stands in the window staring out in the dark fog, finally something it can relate to since morning — this particular night is seeking a kindred spirit — intoxicated darkness.
A space to hide tears in the rain, soundproof against an anguished scream or giggling that gets the kids in trouble with ghosts. Well, there’s no place like a rainy night to disguise the cancer of worry easily eating away at logic, as apprehension to the slowly growing storm, weaving into a cold to numb the organism that demands warmth so it won’t disrupt its own, soon to be, restless slumber.
The silver lining holds the electricity connection together, street lamps flicker on, headlights creating a heavy glow, reminiscent of dusty days, over unmoving vehicles along Portbell Road. The heavy swirling clouds that run from the port return in thick traffic and thundering honking.
The figure starts a kettle of tea to pass the inky evening agonizing above the valley. A rumbling of running water is soon heard in the trench behind the bedroom wall, almost at the same time, the tea starts to boil.
A woman rushes through the wet darkness with a bag that she empties into the running water — the figure in the window dumps a teabag into a cup of steaming liquid, and the woman slips and stumbles on her way back with the now empty rubbish bag — the figure stirs the sugar and takes a sip distracting it’s murky and muddy gaze.
The figure raises the arm that’s not holding onto the cup and the curtain resting above the window falls to block out the outside that has suddenly become a threat to anyone’s escape.