The rain was falling in buckets of incessant droplets, dotting the panes and unwittingly obscuring the view outside. A most uneventful day, certainly, but Gertie was hoping to catch a glimpse of her garden, a small, squarish patch of land, which she had cleared just a few days back. Now breathing and free from the forest of murderous weeds, she was hopeful what she had planted would grow. It was mid-Spring when she came across a patch of spearmint clotting the wall around a sector of her ancient fence, and almost immediately, she found herself with fancies of growing a whole garden full of plump pumpkins, ripe tomatoes and fragrant herbs. But now, now, there was nothing to do. It was raining; an furtive culprit that painted everything gray in color and bland in smell, yet deceitfully fed the earth’s buried endowments. A high hissing from the teapot bolted the girl awake from her reverie, and Gertie, half asleep, sauntered sluggishly back toward the kitchen, eyelids drooping. What a dreary day it was…