The morning was bland. No burst of light through the window overhead. The sky a hue of grey. It had rained last night. More precisely, a barmy storm had broken into the town. It was relief for the likes of me, who were enjoying a sudden change in the weather.

But the world outside was trembling. I had dared to take a peek outside the window while meaning to pull it to shut. There were sparks of fire on a lamppost afar. A few men, rather delivery men, ran for a shed. Some perching on their scooters to get away – all in vain. The storm chased them unforgivingly, the water challenged them from the road underneath. The sky howled with flashes of lightnings.

Now I wonder, lying awake in my bed, how those men might have reached their homes. How the voiceless creatures out on the roads might have weathered the storm. The world outside seems to have gone numb, still shaken from the night’s ruthless fury. I feel a tinge of guilt for who knows what – for the roof overhead? For the comfort beneath myself?

As I pull myself up and out, I realise to my surprise that everything has gone back to normal. The men have thronged the outlet down the road, their scooters parked right across. The dogs are sleepy over a pile of sand. Leaves on the trees looking perked up. The lane has dried, empty of any trace of water.

Only the sky still mourns. As if with guilt. As if mirroring my heart.