A droubble by Jim_Bogle
Beside the pillar, sheltered from the rain and wind, the boy stood. His hands were in his pockets, and his shoulders hunched to his ears as he had left his hat inside, despite the entreaties of his mother. He kicked a pebble out across the courtyard to splash into a muddy puddle, and watched as the surface returned to the spluttering rhythm of the raindrops.
He could have waited inside, but it didn't seem the same. He wouldn't get the warning of the silhouette approaching down the track, those few moments in which to compose himself.
The darkness was sinking through the already heavy sky and the road was wreathed in the downpour. The trees on either side traced black scratches against the clouds. Each gust of wind crackled through their branches and reminded the boy that inside the fire was warm and bright, and the logs would be creaking and spluttering, twisting and blackening in the heat. He imagined that his mother would have the stove on too. Cooking something savoury and dense. The light and the clatter of kitchen utensils would be spilling into the cozy twilight of the sitting room. But despite all this, outside, he waited.