Photo by m wrona on Unsplash

The cottage stood empty on the bluff, wind whistling through long-broken shutters as a fine mist descended from the thin clouds. Occasional god-rays shone through, which was as sunny as it got this time of year. The cottage on the hill was, like most structures, derelict – abandoned years ago and nowhere near salvage or food to bother fixing up. As such, it made for a fantastic bird perch, as well as hideaway for one individual.

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Photo by Eugene Triguba on Unsplash

Soft summer droplets plinked off of cars and roofs as the figure stalked along the road, silent and nigh invisible in the dim twilight rain. Its tongue flitted out of its lips like a lizard’s, sniffing at the air while the large frame that bore it lumbered elegantly through the brush on the side of the road. It had been tracking something, or someone, but it had forgotten who or what. It had been tracking them for a long time, was all it knew.

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Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash

Rain pelted the hardtop like a fiendish beast, each hit deafening inside the vehicle. Here and there, signs of habitation: a small electric hot plate on the dash, plugged into a worn and bleached solar panel collection; clothes folded neatly into the glove compartment; an unmade bed stretching from a reclined driver’s seat to a pillow-laden middle bench; milk crates and bins filled with rows of plants in the back.

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