It is dark.
The houses are far apart here, the only light the occasional flicker of a car passing on the periphery. They are not part of this, those lights, and neither are the people they carry, away and safe.
A cello sobs seduction from somewhere beneath the cascade of rain. The wind whips through, groaning the trees and carrying the scent of exposed earth and bruised flowers through the window screens.
Inside the house, the weight of the air has changed - a cool benediction after the sticky heat of the day.
A large, white moth beats itself against the glass, searching for the darkness behind the light, and falls, leaving only dust behind.
And the woman picks up her pen.