The author smiled and looked out the window. It was raining. The rain always soothed her. Others may ridicule or scoff at the notion, to the young author, the rain was perfect. She had so many memories of the rain, both good and bad.
The rain was pure, yet it was tainted. It cleansed, yet it saddened. The girl looked out the window, then back down at her paper. It was black. She looked up, then back down. She picked up her pencil and began to write.
She thought back to a time when the rain meant hatred. A time when the rain meant loss. So many had been killed in those dark times. So many, including her parents. But then, when the dark ages came to a close, it had started raining. This time, the rain cleaned the earth of its ragged and bloodstained soil. It helped things grow. But many still feared the rain.
Though the author's thoughts wondered, the paper was still being filled. At this point, the girl didn't know what she was writing. She watched the rain pound down at the roof.
Cleaning, yet tainting.
Pure, yet evil.
Calm, yet hectic.
Yes, to the girl, the rain was perfect.
Lucy looked down at her paper. She read it and re-read it. Yes, this might just be her best work.
She looked once more out the window.
Lucy didn't really write it.
The rain did.