the storm

The air was filled with an apprehensive, dead silence. The old man sat on the old rocking chair, creaking and groaning, clutching his ancient lute. As The Storm rolled in, immense dark storm clouds flooding the sky, the old man opened his mouth and sang for the first in many decades. The old man sang, his voice unsure and wavering at first, becoming more confident as the verses of the song advanced. He sang, his voice smooth and deep, calling out the lines of the song. The Storm nearly upon him, he struck the first note on his lute and burst into a frenzy of music, his voice like liquid gold, the lute becoming an extension of his body. If anyone had been there, they would've sworn that the old man ten years younger. In the darkening light, it also seemed as if he was smiling. His song finally coming to an end, he struck the final note on his lute and let it fade away into silence. He whispered the last words of the song and stared up at the sky, as the wind whipped around him, roaring in his ears. The rain started beating down upon him, and he closed his unseeing eyes. His lips formed a single word, and The Storm was upon him.