During his short journey to the train, dressed in four thick layers of clothing, Maxim glared at the Siberian sun. It wasn't a particularly new occurrence. Maxim's relationship with the sun was tumultuous, especially in dead January. Why should the sun bother even coming out when he would be lucky if the temperature hit -25 degrees Celsius? It was a cruel, teasing thing, the sun. It's taunting light and warmth in this frozen lifeless tundra.

Through the sweat pouring down his face, Odion glared at the West African sun. He would maintain until the day he died that farming is an honest man's work, but the damn sun, even in December, was punishing and cruel. The heat radiating off of the sun made the work unbearable at times. It was an unforgiving, relentless, stifling heat. The charms of the Sahara Desert, he supposed.

From her apartment in New York City, Olivia saw that yet again, the sun had risen, and it brought her to tears. The sun was the cruel aftermath the moon's tantalizing arrival. As much as she wished against it every night when she went to sleep, the sun never failed to rise. What's more is that she never failed to wake up each morning, forced to endure another day of her miserable existence.