The familiar trees, the gentle giants of daytime, grow dark, secretive, clustered together under the gray weeping skies. And the wind moans a warning as it winds its way through their withered, bowed, grasping fingers. Oh, I perceive movement, there, behind that slick, wet trunk. A shadow moves, stealthily, under the blanket of this night that weeps. I dare not enter for fear of what I might find lurking within that inky darkness.
But there, at a distance, the soft glow of a street lamp, gently diffused by raindrops, a beacon of safety to a lone traveller.


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