It had been raining for days. Days and nights.
The eternal mist had settled in front of the windows, draping a cloak of darkness for the people who wished to see the light.
To the tune of ferocious winds, the lifeless trees would sway all night.
To some unheard crescendo of a low moan, the rain would come battering down on the roofs like bullets.
The river would swell each night. More and more. Wiping away everything on its path – every bridge and every house.
Radios would chatter on evenings, coupled with feverish prayers of people.
The nights were scary. The days were as dark.
Each night, under the little light from the candle, as she’d prepare her bed, she’d hope for a miracle.
Each night, before falling asleep, she’d look out at the misted window panes and believe, deep in her heart, that the next day would be different. That it would be bright. That the rain would stop. That a miracle would happen at the dead of the night.
The next day, even though the day would be darker and the rain even worse and no miracle would have occurred, before falling asleep, she’d look out at the misted window panes and believe that the following day would be different.
No matter what, at the end of the day, she held onto the tiniest bit of hope.
No matter what, at the end of the day, she believed.
No matter what, deep in her heart, despite the thousand voices in her head that told her otherwise, she believed.