He listens to the rain and how it falls.
It starts off slowly, a soft and syncopated beat against the tin roof of the little house, a haven against the dark and lonely world outside, from the sinister shadows and bittersweet moments it hides.
It has greedy fingers snatching and grabbing, made of despair and covered in the obscurity of time, trying to lure him into being a person he left behind, all too recently for his liking. It took too long to see where they were pulling him with insistent force, into the murky depths of somewhere where there wasn't anything but 'other'.
But in the little house with its tin roof and close neighbours and gratuitously oversized television in its small lounge, he feels strangely safe.
She shifts against him. His arm tightens minutely around her, and he looks up at the ceiling.
It sounds now as if the rain is trying to search out any weakness in the structure and join them inside. To escape the inky blackness of a winter's night. The gentle pitter patte