Work Text:
The thunder claps as buckets of rain pour down. The heavy drops tap against the windshield of the cab like handfuls of pebbles being dropped into a can. Resting her forehead against the window, she sees her reflection cast onto the shiny surface of the road, as raindrops slowly melt away the image. For a moment she closes her eyes and the monotonous world fades away into a stream of subconsciousness.
A ribbon of light tears the grey sky in half as the driver pulls up to the edge of the city street. The sharp heel of her shoe catches in the cracks of the curb when she hears it for the first time. The soft, distant voice protrudes from the murmur of the city. The harsh city lights refract against the water, and soften to a warm, hazy glow. A child slips in a puddle, and a yellow umbrella clatters to the ground. The woman balls up the stretched out sleeves of her thin sweater in her palms, though the green fabric is soaked to the point that it no longer keeps her warm. For some reason that she can't quite put her finger on, there is comfort in that moment.
She hears the voice again, calling out her name. The familiarity sends a shiver through her body, but she cannot recall where she has heard it before. She closes her eyes, but the image remains hazy. She doesn't know anything, but she knows, somehow, that she cannot turn around. It might kill her.
The yellow umbrella lays in the murky water, sad and torn, unwanted and abandoned by its owner.
She presses her wet sleeve against her cheek, the damp material cooling the heat that courses through her veins. She opens her eyes and a thin man stares back. She looks down at his dirty clothes, and the brown bottle he tightly grips in his hand. His sunken eyes meet hers: his sparkling with tears, and hers clouded with thirty years of anguish.
“I’m sorry, Min.”
It’s all right,
It’s gonna be okay,
But it will never be the same.
And the sun will shine,
Rise again,
And the birds with sing her name.