The ground is damp, and cold, and muddy, but he still walks onwards. He is soaked, the water droplets that fall from the sky are absorbed by his long, brown tartan coat, but he doesn't think much of it. His black shoes are splattered with mud, the bottom of his denim trousers are mucky and weighing the rest of his trousers down. His indigo skin is shiny with moisture, his dark eyes heavy and tired-looking. His chocolate-brown hair blows over his face in the harsh wind, damp and soggy like the rest of him. His sooty-black farm cap is drenched in the pouring rain, as is his very visible pink bow-tie. Everything about this man is strange; the way he walks, the way he looks, especially the pink umbrella he is holding at his side but not even using it. He is always seen with his magenta umbrella, as if it is his most trusted companion.
The man walks up the filthy path to the miniscule shack at the top of the small hill. It isn't very weather-proof, in fact it is made of wood that is half-rotted, and there are large cracks between the planks of wood. These do not matter to him; this was, and still is, a very dear place to him.
He approaches the hut and sighs at the door. Memories from many years ago bubble in his head, surfacing from his subconscious and making him smile. Memories of the one he loved most of all, and the one he missed more than ever. The memories he shared with her here, at their secret little den in the middle of nowhere. He still had everything about her fresh in his mind; her little giggly moments; the way her scarlet hair coiled down her neck in such an elegant way; her kind, warm smile. He could almost hear her calling to him, until a flash of lightning and deep, powerful crackle of thunder ignited more memories...darker memories.
The planes overhead, the cargo dropping, the eruption of fire and death that followed. He remembers seeing great cities crumble right before his eyes, he remembers hiding in the shadows praying it all would end, he remembers telling her that it would all work out, and how he promised to protect her, and how he let her down. He remembers the day after, and how he looked for anyone, how he looked for her, and being fooled every time he checked a building and hoped to see her safe and waiting for him, ready to forgive him for the atrocities he had caused.
He remembers the day when he finally found her. Many, many, many years later, too many to count, and he was still searching for her despite his failure. He found her lying in a peaceful way, sleeping, never to be harmed again. Never to wake again. Lying next to her was her umbrella, and as he picked it up he noticed it hadn't changed much. It was still bright pink, but with a couple of age-old maroon bloodstains on it. It was her favourite umbrella, she'd always have it handy when she would need it. He looked down at her body and felt a warm substance dribble down his cheeks. He realized he had nothing left but the umbrella. She wouldn't be needing it where she was. So he quietly left her sleeping.
Literally dozens of years later, and he still has the umbrella. He is reminded of her, and his memories are all he has left. He feels the familiar warm water falling down his cheeks, and he enters the hut.