Graveyards are lonely, haunted, and dark. Head stones mark the burial place of each of the dead, and serve as towering guardians to those graves. Mausoleums dot the landscape, shrouded in the shadows of moss-draped trees. Tall grass, spotted with small, yellow flowers, waves and shimmers beneath the dark, ominous sky. The wind whips around each grave, touching it lightly, and marking it, before it rushes quickly away to caress the next one. The marble graves are streaked by rain, and the old graves tip, and sink into the ground under the wind’s powerful touch. A graveyard…it is the resting place for all souls. But far away, and up a hill, in a lonely patch of grass, there is erected the Hill Grave.

The blades of deep green ripple under the dark breeze as the clouds roll in closer, casting a dark, and ominous shadow across the grave. Across the Hill Grave. The thunder moans and rumbles as the rain grows heavy, and begins to drip. A drop falls, slowly, slowly, slowly. It pierces the air, falling downward, past the clouds, past the treetops, past the other graves that crowd themselves in rows. It falls for one grave only, and explodes upon the surface of the hill grave with a small “plip”. The hill grave seems to shudder slightly, and the grass bows and reaches for the grave. The flowers nod always before the grave, and the wind rises up from the Earth. It thrusts itself upward, and slits the sky open to release the heavy pains of the cloud. And the cloud begins to weep.

The rain falls heedlessly to the Earth, ignoring the air that thrusts them apart, and pushes them together again for simple fun. The rain grasps the hand of gravity as it races forth, and pulls each of them deep into the grass. The drops explode upon the graves, and drip slowly to the ground, to be soaked up until the ground no longer thirsts. Until the ground bleeds with water. The drops scatter themselves across the graveyard’s expanse. The thunder shakes the rain from the clouds, and it begins to fall heavier and faster, until it is like knives hailing from the sky. Cold, wet, steely knives composed of water from the sky.

The rain is in sheets, and the hill grave’s surface is coated in water. The name on the grave begins to wash away slightly, as it always does when it rains. The particles are blown away, encased in raindrops, by the cold, dark breeze. The clouds are torn apart now, and a flash suddenly escapes its dark depths. It pierces the air, and slits the ground like an electric blade. The grass jumps back, and withers to smoky, black straw whilst the rain cools the burning, ebony mark that was struck into place by the flashing blade.

The cloud roars and growls again, and the flash is upon the Earth again. It slices a nodding, yellow flower down the center, and scorches the sunshine petals to hues of darkness. The flower floats away, into the grass, and drowns itself in the sea of sage-colored blades. Yet the blade is not satisfied, and strikes a tree, igniting it. The heavy limb falls to the ground with an unearthly “thud”. Its long, twisted fingers brush gently across the hill grave, scorching its mark upon the grave’s visible history.

The thunderhead is not yet satisfied, and with a deep groan, another spark jumps lightly from its depths once more, and pierces the air, slicing it into pieces as it trickles its way to its target. The blade comes closer, and the grass bows under it and the trees wrench themselves gently away. The blade, electrified and blazing with nearly supernatural strength, suddenly swipes away at its target, and disappears into nothingness. The cloud renders a last bellow, and remains silent as the trickles of water slow. They unlatch from gravity, and float softly to the grass, as the purity of the sun perforates the darkness that drifts wispily away. A long, narrow shaft falls silently down, and lights upon one small, extraordinary detail. The Hill Grave.

The grave is scorched and cracked. Its character has been battered, and it has been finally struck by the hand of its enemy. It has stood long under the torture, but now, it has relented. The grave is missing a large chunk of stone. The stone has been sprawled, a few feet away, under the smoldering branch. It once read a date, but it has been marked out, as if by an ebony Sharpie. Now, the thunderhead has had its revenge, and the grave remains incomplete to sink into the ancient dirt, just as all graves have done. The remaining date, carved carefully, and deeply upon the tombstone, is now washed away by the violent rain-waters. The grave is now an erected mystery upon a lonely hill, put away in a graveyard, never to be believed again as the guardian of a missing soul.