The clouds hung low over squat brick buildings, and bare trees stood yellow, and uniform in their lifelessness. Slivers of sunlight find their grasp on slate rooftops, blind fingers fighting through the winds, wiped out by the gusts, that blows the mottled marble closer and closer, from the horizon. Crows perch on aerials, eras clashing on Victorian chimney breast. Shutters slam as the wind whips, faster and faster, howling around the autumn-red-brick. Evergreens stand, tall and round over the world, having seen the driest droughts survived the harshest blizzards.

But this is the one storm they know they won't survive.

That was ten years ago.

That was before she died.

Before she was washed away by the floods.

And she floated above rooftops, past uprooted trees.