Crying with the Sky

She was stepping on the yellow lines of the road that no one ever drove down, being careful not to step on the surrounding black asphalt. It was a concentration game she often played with herself.

It was raining – hard. The thick drops of rain forced themselves out of the gathering thunderhead and to the ground with an almost solid quality. You could almost hear them shatter as they hit the ground, the asphalt, the top of her head. There was thunder, too. Large, boiling crashes that rolled out of the sky in waves.

It was wonderful.
It was beautiful.
It was renewal.

It took a long time for her to realize that she was crying in time with the rain that was falling from the sky. She set her feet on the warm, black surface of the road and just stood there, blinking up into the rain.

She knew that she had to go back. She knew that she had to face what she had done, what she had caused. But, at least for a little while, it was easier to stand there, on the road that nobody used, and cry with the sky.

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