Neon lights filter through the rain, each heavy droplet refracting a technicolor universe, as the rumbling of thunder announces to the blackened sky just how long it plans to stay. A lone figure, wearing garb from an era long passed even in our own time, steps dilatorily down a hard gray path, the echoing wooden clack of her gata smothered by the sky falling, an innumerable amount of drops all finding their natural resting state all at once. The park trees, once lush with sakura blossom, given away with such poetically charged abandon in these months, now lay bare, clutching jealously the few leaves that haven't flown the coop, thin delicate branches like so many clawing fingers. A thin smile crosses her face at the irony of something so beautiful looking so sinister once laid bare, as she tightens the grip on her umbrella, the pale domesticated wood striking contrast with the dark and free branches looming overhead. Her smile disappears as quickly as it arrived as the reminder that there is work to be done rumbles overhead.
She reaches a clearing, the clack of each step all but choked by splashing now as she looks to the moon, a comforting constant, as unchanging as she. An earth-shaking thud robs the sakura of the last of their leaves, and a roar that is altogether not thunder pierces the natural harmony.
There is work to be done, she repeats to herself, as the glint of steel between the halves of her umbrella reflects the looming neon so far above.
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