The Storm; Wrath of the Clouds

The sky began to dim as the sun tilted westward. Clouds gathered on the horizon like an approaching army, their edges tinged with shades of deep grey and charcoal. They rolled and churned, some towering like rugged mountains, others twisting and coiling like serpents in flight. Over Oaknestle, they spread like a heavy blanket, smothering the once vibrant village into pitch blackness. Silence descended down, as torches were lit in every house. Windows closed for now, doors shut thuddingly. The wind began to pick up, a low breeze through Oaknestle. At first just a gentle blow, it soon grew in intensity, howling and whistling as it swept through the village. Leaves were torn from their branches, swirling and twirling in the air before being carried away by the gusts. Loose debris danced along the ground, stirred by the wind, while the trees responded with subtle sways, their branches gently bobbing in the wind's caress. Windows rattled lightly in their frames, and the occasional door creaked on its hinges, but the village remained relatively calm amidst the growing gale. But then, the wind surged with force, snapping branches and causing water to splash and beat down against the bank of the river. The sheep inside a small barn bleated loudly as the wooden structure creaked from the wind. Soon, rain came pouring down like pebbles, pounding against rooftops and windows with relentless force. The droplets were large and heavy, driven sideways by the fierce wind. Rivulets of water cascaded down onto the sodden ground. Thunder boomed overhead, its deep, rumbling cadence shaking the very foundations of the village. Lightning crackled and danced across the sky, illuminating the darkness with jagged bolts of white-hot energy. Each flash casting shadows from the sentinel trees and the fine houses. This storm would last.

Inside the village, the hush of silence would be broken by people praying in their homes. "God, pass this storm soon." they wished. So did Vincent's family. Vincent and his father sat in chairs, and Lily had been watching through the window as the wind picked up, eventually, the thunder had scared her away back to her parents, where she hid herself under her blanket, next to her mother. 

"Mama… what if the windows break?" she mumbled.

"They won't, dear. They never did." Isabella assured.

"They could…" said grandpa.

"Hell… I don't want to imagine that." Vincent groaned.

His father chuckled. "This is certainly a new experience for me."

"Aren't you afraid, dad?" Vincent asked.

"No… why should I be? I'm already fragile and old."

"True… but what about us?"

"Oh… I didn't think that." grandpa cackled. "Surely you all will be fine."

"Well you better hope." Vincent laughed, but Lily groaned under the blanket.

"Isn't funny." Isabella retorted. 

"Yeah… sorry…" he apologised.

"Life's not fun without action." grandpa chuckled again. But his chuckle was a raspy sound, punctuated by fits of coughing.

"I think we should move you to a safer place." Vincent replied.

"Nonsense. I'm fine here." grandpa denied, waving a dismissive hand.

"What if the storm gets worse, father?" Isabella pressed.

"Then we'll weather it together." grandpa smiled.

"I don't know." Vincent said, glancing at Isabella. 

"Where would you take me anyway?" the old man laughed.

"The shelter house where we keep the sick is strong enough. We can take you there." Vincent suggested.

"How?"

"What do you mean 'how', dad?"

"I meant how."

"Well… tomorrow when the storm ends."

"What if it didn't?"

"Then the next day. And if it still persisted, then whenever it ends, dad."

"What if something happened by then?"

"Oh come on, dad. Stop messing around."

Grandpa chuckled, his voice rough like gravel. "My boy I thought you'd play along with your old man a little more."

"Dad… you're sick, okay? You should rest. Right, Bella?"

"Yeah… you really should rest, father." Isabella nodded, caressing Lily in her arms under the blanket.

"Ganging up on the old man I see. Well I'll tell you! In my youth no one could stand up to m—" grandpa began, but before he could, coughing overtook him once more. His body shook with each cough, and he struggled to catch his breath between raspy wheezes.

Vincent quickly moved closer to his father, patting him on his back. "Easy, dad." he murmured.

Isabella sighed as she held Lily closer. Grandpa's coughs gradually subsided, leaving him breathless and weary. He leaned back against the pillows, his chest rising and falling heavily as he struggled to regain his composure.

Isabella's hand reached to his forehead, gently pressing against his wrinkled skin. "You need to rest, father. Your fever is high. Vinny, can you bring the thermometer?" she said.

Grandpa sighed as Vincent went to a small cabinet in the room. "I guess you're right. An old man can't have the same fun as he did in his youth." he murmured.

Vincent brought a thermometer. "Here, dad." he said.

 Grandpa shook his head. "No no." he dismissed. "I do not need to use that."

"Dad."

"Absolutely not. I hated putting this under my tongue, it felt so weird!"

"Please."

"Alright, fine."

Grandpa reluctantly opened his mouth, allowing Vincent to carefully place the thermometer beneath his tongue. He shook slightly at the sensation but complied nonetheless.

When the thermometer displayed the results, the room fell into silence, only the sound of the storm and the rattle of windows could be heard.

Lily peeked out from her mother's embrace. "Why— why's everyone so quiet?" she said.

"The fever… it's… crazy high." Vincent said with a frown.

"Father, you have to rest." Isabella urged.

Grandpa nodded. "Alright… fine…" he said, as he closed his eyes and breathed heavily but slowly, resting his head on the backrest of his chair. Eventually, his breathing calmed as he drifted to sleep.

"We need to keep an eye on him." Vincent murmured.

Isabella nodded, her gaze at Lily. "I'll stay with him." she decided.

"Alright. I'll check on you three soon." Vincent said, holding her hand and kissing it gently. He patted Lily's head before draping a blanket over his father on his chair. Carefully he walked out the room, leaving the door ajar with a slight creak.

Vincent entered his room, locking the door with a soft thud. He took a look out the window, it was blurry because of the rain, but the storm was intense and loud. Sighing, he walked over to his closet, reaching for something at the top— the journal.