“Rain’s coming,” Henry said as he shuttered the windows and turned back to the room. A candle flickered on the table sending a thin white line of smoke upwards to the rafters. Nobody was there to hear his words.

He moved across to an archway which led to another room, but the next room was empty as well. He took no notice of the room as he traversed its length to poke at the small fire in the hearth and add a piece of wood from the tiny timber box in the corner. The house was delapidated in the extreme and showed signs of having been lived in for decades without being thoroughly cleaned. Dust piled on and stuck to every horizontal surface, becoming like glue as the humidity made it damp enough to stick to everything.

Henry pulled the small cauldron around to the front of the fire and ladled out a small serving of soup for himself before he sat down in the solitary chair to enjoy his lonely supper. White beans and cabbage floated around in the thin soup and he chewed slowly as he ate, taking no delight in the flavorless meal which he ate purely for survival, though one cannot live on cabbage and beans alone for long. He finished, left the bowl on the table, and stood, almost thinner and more emaciated than he was when he had sat down to eat. He made his way over to the shuttered window and peered out between the slats, squinting to try and see out into the darkness.

Before long, the sounds of rain and hail hitting the roof and windows came to his long, ancient ears and he smiled. He loved the sound of rain upon the roof. A flash of lightning printed fine lines on the walls as the light passed through the gaps in the shutters, and a clap on thunder roared across the countryside, reverberating as it rolled over the hills. Henry began to laugh, remembering his childhood long ago.

His father took Henry and his sisters out onto the stoop and made them all sit there under the eaves, watching the storm as it rolled in and only let them retreat into the house after the lightning came too close for comfort. The pounding rain soaked the children through and yet they dared not move from the spot as they watched with rapt fascination as the lightning struck here and there across the land; never in the same place twice, and never in the same shape. Henry marvelled at the different paths the light would take as it arced between the earth and the clouds.

Perhaps his most fond memory was from after they retreated into the house, this house, and stripped out of their wet clothes. All seven of the children sat shivering in towels near the fire as their clothes dried on the mantle. Mother sat in her rocker with the youngest sister upon her lap and began to read from an ancient tome about four men who became like brothers in ancient France. Though nobody knew where France was, or what a ‘musketeer’ was for that matter, they all enjoyed the action, romance, and intrigue of the old story and Henry lay awake long after they were in bed, living the life of d’Artagnan, fencing with his enemies and having the camaraderie of his brothers.

His dreams were not to be, but he had not an empty life. He eventually found love, got married, and had children of his own, though they were all grown and gone. He sat here in his home, alone and nearly forgotten after his long life lived among his family. His mind still wandered to the past and happier days, and he sat once more at the table, armed with a pen and ink. He wrote a single line on some parchment:

‘My children,

I have lived a long life full of happiness and laughter, but my race has been run. I love you.’

He set the quill down next to the slip of paper and stood. The grin on his face spread even wider as he turned toward the door and opened it, admitting the wind and rain which fell steadily down. He took one last look around the rooms which had contained his life before stepping out and closing it behind him.

Never was he seen again.