• There was the distant thunder, the faint lightening illuminating the night sky miles away. The moon was hiding behind the thick rain clouds, but every now and then the clouds shifted and a white sliver became visible for a moment. The rain was steady. There was a rhythmic tap-tap-tap from a flow of water that dripped down a tree branch and into a small murky puddle at the foot of the tree. I raised my face to the sky, letting the rain spatter on my forehead and drip down my chin. I parted my lips and let the rain shatter on my clenched teeth. I did not blink when the drops fell on my eyes; I kept them wide open and unprotected except for my eyelashes, which caught their share of rain.
    I was very aware of Clark standing awkwardly at the base of the tree. He held his attaché over his head to shield it from the precipitation. He patiently held his composure, though, for my sake. He kept his face blank; his jaw taught, his eyes unfocused, and his lips were secured into a tight line. His soft golden waves of hair settled behind his ears and stuck to his neck from the exposure to the rainfall. He stood casually leaning against the trunk, his legs crossed, but he was frigid. He didn’t wince when the icy water spattered on his bare arm, or when the wind blew a branch into him carelessly.
    As much as his presence was not necessary, I wanted him here. He was keeping me here. Now. If it were just I in the rainfall, I could be two hundred years from now, or two hundred back. But Clark, here in the flesh, reminded me that I was here, semi-alone, or at least for what would await me.
    This was my battle. This was a cold war. If I did not plan everything out so meticulously then I could cost the lives of everyone I ever knew or cared about.
    I could almost hear the sound of my mother indoors, slowly playing her harp. Each note was like its own symphony. And if each note was so significant and meaningful, then what would one wrong move on my part equal? Death? No doubt a painful and merciless one. What would I be accused of? And even worse – what if I were not the one accused? It could be Clark. Or Mother. Or Avarice or Philip or the baker or blacksmith or seamstress. If I had their blood spilled on my account, then I could not live with myself. I would doom myself to the darkest part of hell.
    I’ve already condemned one life. Father’s. He had nothing to do with the accident. I was angry. I was irrational. If I hadn’t tinkered with the machinery then the president would not have crashed and Father would not be sentenced. But I did it and I cannot change the past.
    Mother begins to play the song Father wrote for her. He called it ‘She Was Raised Among the Angels’ because of his devotion for her. As she reaches the last line, the harp falters and clatters to the floor. I can hear the quick footsteps of Mother racing up the stairs and then silence. The last line:

    If we were to be parted, then I would find her in Heaven

    Or perhaps the other way around.