The Rain, the Mud, and the Unfinished Song

A few days had passed since Arthon last saw the quiet fisherman casting his line into the placid waters. In that time, the gentle riverbanks gave way to rolling meadows and occasional clusters of trees, all under a sky that appeared increasingly moody. Clouds gathered in shifting shades of gray, their edges fraying like worn fabric. A damp chill spread through the air, and every so often, a breeze would gust across the fields, carrying the telltale scent of impending rain.

Arthon walked with measured steps, hugging his cloak around him as the wind picked up. His boots crunched over gravel and patches of hardened mud. He could feel in his bones that a storm was coming—not a violent tempest, perhaps, but a steady downpour that would make travel uncomfortable. Off in the distance, he spotted what looked like a narrow track veering off the main road. Perhaps it led to a farmstead or a small settlement where he could wait out the weather under a roof. He decided to follow it.

The track wound through grass that was already wet around the roots, and each footstep left a small imprint that shimmered with water. Arthon stopped once to check the sky: dark, rolling clouds inching closer by the minute. The distant horizon seemed swallowed by a misty haze, as though the rain had already begun there. He quickened his pace.

Before long, he came upon a low wooden gate, standing crookedly at the mouth of a farm lane. Beyond it lay a small yard with a garden patch, a chicken coop, and a modest barn attached to a stable. Set further back stood a farmhouse, its windows shuttered against the encroaching chill. Arthon leaned over the gate and called out, hoping for an answer.

"Hello?" he shouted. "Is anyone here?"

No reply came, only the rustle of wind skimming through the tall grass. He considered approaching the farmhouse directly, but the barn was nearer and offered a simpler prospect. Even if no one was at home, perhaps he could find shelter in the barn. He lifted the gate's latch—finding it unlocked—and stepped into the yard. Immediately, the sky seemed to dim, the first droplets of rain beginning to patter against the earth.

Half-walking, half-running, he made his way to the barn doors. One side stood ajar, perhaps left that way by an absent farmer. He slipped inside just as the rain intensified, turning into a steady, drumming cascade that rattled the barn's roof. In the murky interior, Arthon paused, letting his eyes adjust. The scent of hay, damp wood, and old leather mingled in the air. Dust motes spiraled in the thin beams of light that managed to peek through gaps in the walls.

He heard a sudden movement—a shuffle from deeper within the barn. Alarmed, he peered into the shadows. Two silhouettes emerged into the dim light: a young woman and a bearded man, both soaked from the rain. They looked surprised to see him but not overly hostile. Arthon raised a hand in greeting.

"Hello," he said softly. "I was looking for shelter from the storm. I wasn't sure if anyone was around."

The man nodded curtly. "Same thought we had," he replied, pushing wet hair away from his forehead. "We were on the road when the skies opened up. Figured no one would mind if we waited it out here."

Arthon noticed the young woman hugging her shoulders. She wore a patched cloak, water dripping from the hem. She seemed a little wary, and Arthon couldn't blame her; encountering strangers in an abandoned barn might put anyone on edge. Hoping to ease the tension, he offered a small smile.

"I'm Arthon," he said. "A traveling poet, I suppose you could say. I've been on the road for some time."

The man exchanged a quick glance with the woman. Then he answered, "I'm Jahan. This is Sella." He didn't elaborate on their purpose or destination, but Arthon sensed no animosity—just a guarded politeness. They were travelers as well, it seemed, or perhaps workers heading to a nearby village.

Outside, the rain drummed steadily, filling the barn with a rhythmic hush. Arthon felt a chill settle over him, and he rubbed his arms. Jahan pointed to a leaning stack of hay bales near the back. "We've made a small dry spot there," he said. "Better than sitting on the dirt floor."

Arthon nodded in thanks and joined them. The barn's interior was basic: a half-loft above, a few stalls along one side, and scattered implements—a broken pitchfork, a cracked wheelbarrow, a coil of rope. Everything hinted at a farm in a state of mild neglect. Arthon wondered where the farmer or the family could be. Perhaps they were inside the farmhouse, equally sheltering from the storm and unaware of their visitors.

Sella spoke up, her voice quiet but firm. "We have a bit of bread left if you're hungry. It's not much, but we can share."

Arthon thanked her, declining with a gentle shake of his head. "I still have some dried fruit and a small portion of bread myself," he said. "I'll manage, but I appreciate it."

Sella nodded and tore off a piece of her own bread, chewing pensively. Jahan busied himself attempting to wring water from his cloak, creating small puddles on the barn's wooden planks. For a while, the three of them sat in a loose circle, listening to the wind gust against the barn walls. Lightning flickered briefly through the cracks in the timbers, followed by the low rumble of thunder. Rain hammered the roof like a thousand drummers practicing in unison.

Eventually, Sella broke the silence. "You said you're a poet. That's not something one hears every day. Usually we meet peddlers, tinkers, or day-laborers—people traveling for trade or work. But a poet?"

Arthon offered a slight smile. "Yes, I suppose it's a bit unusual. I'm gathering experiences, trying to shape them into a long poem that captures the quiet truths of everyday life. Not grand heroics or secrets—just the subtle beauty I see on the roads."

She tilted her head, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "So what have you seen so far? Anything extraordinary?"

"Many small things," Arthon replied. "A carpenter fixing a bridge, a calligrapher turning words into art, a fisherman showing me the poetry of patience. Those moments might not sound dramatic, but they hold a certain magic when you look closely."

Jahan made a small sound in his throat—whether of agreement or skepticism, Arthon wasn't sure. The bearded man finally spoke. "Sometimes life's simplest tasks have the deepest roots," he said. "I used to think that traveling was all about big discoveries. But mostly, you see people just trying to get by."

Arthon nodded. "That's precisely what interests me—the ways people 'just get by' and how that, in itself, can be artful or meaningful. Even today, with this storm, we've found ourselves in the same place by pure chance. That might become part of my poem, a verse about how strangers share a barn's shelter."

A slight smile flickered across Sella's face. She stretched her damp cloak across a bale of hay, hoping it might dry faster. "You write about little coincidences like this?"

"I do." Arthon pulled out a small stub of charcoal and a folded piece of paper from his pack, which thankfully remained mostly dry. "Would it bother you if I took a few notes?"

Jahan waved a hand. "Go ahead. We're not going anywhere until this storm lets up."

So Arthon began to sketch words on the page:

Rain on a battered roof,

Strangers in a barn,

Small islands of warmth within the dark.

He wasn't sure if it captured the moment yet, but it was a start. Sometimes, he found that words needed time to settle, to mingle with memory. Perhaps later, when the rain was a distant echo, he would refine those lines.

A flash of lightning lit the interior for an instant, revealing the barn's beams swarming with shadows. Sella drew in a breath at the thunder's rumble. "This is quite a storm," she murmured. "We might be here until nightfall."

"We might," Jahan agreed, looking around. "But it could be worse. At least the roof doesn't leak much."

Arthon tucked his charcoal away, noticing a faint chill creeping into his bones. He decided to search the barn for anything that might help warm them—loose straw, old blankets, anything. With the others' silent permission, he rose and poked around in corners. He found a stack of tattered burlap sacks, still intact enough to serve as a makeshift covering. He brought them over to the hay bales.

"Better than nothing," he said, handing one to Jahan and another to Sella. "It'll take the edge off the chill."

They thanked him, draping the sacks around their shoulders or over their legs. The storm continued its percussive symphony, and the day outside darkened as though evening had arrived early. Wanting to fill the silence, Arthon ventured another topic. "Do either of you sing? I've found that sometimes a song makes the waiting easier."

Sella and Jahan exchanged a look. Then Sella said, "I dabble. Nothing fancy, just a lullaby my mother used to sing. But I'm not used to performing for strangers."

Arthon smiled encouragingly. "We're hardly a crowd. And sometimes the softest songs fit moments like this best."

She hesitated, then cleared her throat, glancing at Jahan as if to check his reaction. He shrugged amiably, so she began, voice hushed:

"Under the rain and the quiet sky,

Feet on the earth where the soft winds sigh,

Close your eyes, let the day slip by,

We'll find our rest in tomorrow."

The melody was simple—no formal training evident, but heartfelt. The barn seemed to absorb the notes, and Arthon felt a subtle warmth as he listened. Outside, the thunder rumbled again, but it sounded muted compared to the gentle lilt of her voice. When she finished, Arthon noticed that even Jahan wore a subdued smile.

"That was lovely," Arthon said. "Thank you for sharing it."

Sella blushed slightly, pulling her makeshift cloak tighter. "It's nothing special. Just a small comfort."

"Small comforts matter," Arthon replied. "They're part of what keeps us going."

A companionable hush descended, broken only by the continuing patter of rain. Each of them seemed lost in private thoughts. Arthon tried to shape lines in his mind that would capture the essence of Sella's song: the softness of it, the maternal warmth that lingered in each note. He realized it might complement the lines he had already scribbled, lending them an air of solace and shared humanity.

Time passed slowly—minutes or hours, it was hard to tell in the barn's dim light. At some point, Jahan produced a small tin cup and poured water from a flask, offering it to each of them. They drank and shared a bit of bread, forming a spontaneous fellowship forged by necessity. The hush of the storm lulled them into an almost meditative state, the rhythmic downpour as steady as a heartbeat.

Eventually, the roar of rain lessened. Thunder moved away, becoming distant mutters on the horizon. Light filtered through the barn walls, less gray and more silver, suggesting that the sky had cleared somewhat. Jahan got to his feet and peered outside. The yard was a mess of puddles and mud, but the worst of the deluge had passed.

He turned to the others. "Seems like we can move on if we like. Might still be drizzling, but not a full storm."

Sella nodded, standing and gathering her cloak. It was still damp but wearable. Arthon also rose, folding his notes and tucking them away. He felt a surge of gratitude for this shared interlude—humble though it was, it felt like part of the quiet tapestry he was weaving.

They stepped out into the pale, cool light. The clouds still drifted overhead, but patches of sky hinted at a slow return of sun. Mud squelched underfoot. The three travelers paused briefly in the barnyard, looking around as if expecting someone to emerge from the farmhouse. No one did.

"Well," Sella said, turning to Arthon, "safe travels to you."

"And to you both," Arthon replied. "Thank you for the company—and the song. It'll stay with me."

Jahan gave Arthon a respectful nod. He and Sella headed off in one direction, carefully navigating the slippery track. Arthon lingered a moment, gazing at the barn. He felt the urge to jot down another line or two, capturing the intangible blend of coziness and tension that had enveloped them within those walls. Finding a relatively dry spot near the barn's door, he scribbled:

Rain hushes the world,

We share a lullaby in half-light—

A promise that storms pass.

Satisfied for now, he secured the charcoal stub in his pack. Then he set off in the opposite direction, returning to the main road. Mud clung to his boots, and rivulets of water continued to drip from the eaves of the barn behind him. He felt invigorated by the experience, not because of any grand revelation, but because of the simple human closeness he had shared with strangers. In a single chapter of his wanderings, he had witnessed once again how life's smallest gestures—a shared lullaby, a piece of bread, a place to stay dry—could carry a quiet poetry all their own.

As he walked on, the drizzle tapered off, and a pale sun broke through the clouds, transforming puddles into mirrors that glimmered underfoot. The world smelled fresh and clean, as if renewed by the passing storm. Arthon couldn't help but smile at the thought that his poem, too, was slowly taking shape from such moments, each verse formed by the gentle interplay of circumstance and kindness. And though the path ahead was uncertain, he felt reassured by the knowledge that, in life's unforeseen downpours, one could often find not only shelter, but also a shared song waiting in the shadows.