The streets were covered in a glistening glaze of water, the rain creating innumerable ripples in the expanse. Shaitan stayed on the sidewalk, barely sidestepping puddles and walking through them when necessary. His black hood was pulled up, with his black umbrella hanging overhead. Everything about him was dark, and the rain and cold only added to the gloom that settled over him.

The music book was tucked beneath his left arm protectively, wrapped in some cloth and placed inside a bag to help keep the rain from getting to it. Thankfully, though, the angle at which the rain was pouring down was not aimed in a direction where it would hit the book.

This was not a day he wished to be walking.

Already, his arms were growing cold and his lungs hurt every time he inhaled. His breathing was strained. He had been walking for nearly fifteen minutes. A little longer and he would be home where it was warm, and his piano would be there waiting to be played.

Yes, that’s what he wanted. His art representative would not be happy if he got sick. Not this week. He had to finish a painting by the end of the week. Why was he out, then? He wanted to get out.

The beauty of nature astounded him always and drew from him ragged breaths of admiration. No matter how old he was, he could not help it. For long hours, weeks, and years, he remained mostly isolated. When it rained, he yearned to touch it. To reach his hand out and grasp whatever was the essence of it. But at the same time, it was a nuisance to him.

He held the book tighter beneath his arm.

What was it that compelled him to continue day by day? There was no telling how many times he had asked himself that question.

The man stopped to stare. The beating rain crashed down as he thought.