Bernard B. Belling, or: The Ghost of Ghost Hill (Part 3)

The rain went well with Bernard’s mindset. Not that he would know this, having been born in The Great Drought. He had never seen rain before, but he was still unmoved.

He was caught inside himself. All he could remember were her stinging words. The way his heart fell apart. His chest felt like it was strangling itself, and he couldn’t care enough to stop it.

He was soaked when he walked inside his house. His dog began to lick the water droplets off of him.

The dog still drinking his pants, he sat down at his sofa. He sat down and cried. He cried for the days gone by and the setting sun. He cried for all the years that would go without her. The marriage that would never be, the kids he would never have, growing old without her by his side. His television blinked a news station trying their best to cover a story of what was supposed to be scientists analyzing why the rain had returned. There were apocalypse forecasters right next to the weather forecasters.

His dog began to lick the tears off his face.

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