Sometimes the rain doesn’t stop, despite thinking you can brave the last few kilometres. Sometimes it gets harder. Sometimes the sky decides that you have wronged it, and dumps merciless buckets of revenge on you from all sides. Today is one of those days. I wade barefooted through the flood, my expensive Converse clutched against my chest, leaking water down my raincoat with each step. It’s easier than wearing them. It’s hard to imagine, now, that trees possess colour, not when the overcast clouds reflect gloom on all that the rain touches. The only thing that stands out amidst the grey is my umbrella - a scarlet beacon of hope, but essentially useless in providing shelter from the rain - and my scarf, whipping violently to the side. I have no idea where I’m going. I can only hope I’m retracing my steps correctly back to civilization. A gust of wind throws me to the side, and out of reflex, I thrust my hands outward to stop my fall. I land on my knees with a splash and look up just in time to see my umbrella circling up and away, into the void of emptiness. I cry out in frustration, only because I know no one will hear me. This, too, floats away into the mist, leaving me with drenched clothing and a hoarse throat. I pick myself up, cold and heavy from the water collecting in my clothes, and slog on.