Their two children are splashing in puddles as more water falls from the sky. They watch, one filled with pride that her children will never understand the meaning of drought, the other staring impassively at the way the droplets fall on the windowpane.
She takes his hand in hers and rests her head on his shoulder. Companionship. Like they used to be.
His eyes are brown. Plain and brown and deeper than any ocean she's ever seen. Dark. Dirty. Tired.
"Rain is beautiful," he says to her unspoken question. "But it's not enough to wash away the things I've done."
Thank you for reading. This is the end, for now.