The fields lay stretched out in their endless monotony, the golden cornstalks swaying gently under the weight of the wind. The sky, vast and imposing, threatened rain but never delivered. There’s a cruel kind of irony in waiting for something that never comes, be it rain or relief.

I walked the empty roads, gravel crunching under my feet, the scent of damp earth filling my nostrils. The old oak tree, standing solitary at the bend of the road, had been there for decades. Longer than I had been alive. Longer than any of us. And in its shade, I sought solace.

As I sat, back against the rough bark, memories of her flooded back. Her laughter, echoing in the hollow spaces of my heart, her gentle touch, now just a ghost of a feeling.

She had been a flame, flickering and dancing, full of life and spirit. And like all flames, she had been snuffed out too soon, leaving behind a cold, unforgiving darkness. The weight of her absence bore down on me, a physical pain that no medicine could cure, no drink could numb.

A distant roll of thunder sounded, mirroring the turmoil within me. Why her? Why so soon? Questions with no answers, a torment that never ceased. The empty bottle beside me, a testament to the futile attempt to drown the pain, was now just a reminder of its persistence.

In the vastness of the fields, under the shade of that ancient oak, I felt my insignificance. The world moved on, indifferent to one man’s grief. Yet, in that moment of profound sadness, I also felt a connection to everything around me - the earth, the sky, the tree. They too had witnessed countless sorrows, had stood silent through countless storms.

The first drops of rain began to fall, cool against my skin, washing away the dirt, the pain, the memories. For a brief moment, I felt a sense of release, a brief respite from the anguish. But I knew, as the rain ceased and the clouds cleared, the sadness would return, as persistent and unyielding as ever.