Water runs down my face, my neck, my back. It’s been raining for days, and it long since soaked through my ragged clothes. Mud squishes under my feet, and I step carefully to avoid slipping.

I don’t mind the rain, although I know many people did, back when there were people. The water isn’t more than a mild inconvenience to me, and there is nothing sad to me about the gray sky and constant downpour. The soft white noise of it is comforting. Civilization was a noisy thing, even if no one noticed it at the time: a constant background hum of electricity buzzing through the wires, cars on the road and planes in the air, distant televisions and music, and everywhere the sound of a multitude of humans speaking and walking and just being.

It’s silent now, an impossibly deep silence that the wind and the birds cannot possibly break, but the rain fills it. I am enveloped.

The rain isn’t a problem, but lightning is, and when towards evening I hear thunder in the distance, I start looking for shelter. I find it under a rocky overhang, a shelter not quite deep enough to be called a cave. I’m not the only one looking for sanctuary in the downpour, but the pair of foxes already here aren’t afraid enough of me to risk getting wet. They move back out of my way but don’t flee, and after about half an hour come sniffing back to investigate their strange new houseguest.

I am careful not to move. In my complete stillness, they seem to have forgotten that I’m more than just a piece of scenery, and I don’t want to break the spell. I must not smell like danger; I doubt I smell like anything but mud. One fox curls up between my legs, the other against my side, taking advantage of my body’s heat.

I wait with them through the night as thunder booms and lightning flashes. When dawn comes, the rain begins to slow. The relentless downpour turns into a light drizzle. The foxes rise and stretch and, after a brief conference, leave behind my warmth and the rock’s shelter. Even in bad weather, they still have to eat.

After they leave, I rise and follow. By late morning, the rain has stopped. The birds have returned from their hiding places, flitting from branch to branch with a symphony of calls punctuated by shaken-down droplets. The forest is bustling, every creature out in search of food. I glance up through wet branches to see the sky has been washed clean. For the first time in weeks, it is clear, beautifully clear and blue. The leaves are greener, and sunlight transforms hanging droplets into sparkling strings of diamonds. Everything is fresh and clean and bright. It’s a good sight. A sight I had feared I would never see again.

My clothes slowly dry as I walk through this bright new spring, in a world finally washed clean. Rain will always fall. Spring will always return. Still, in spite of all this beauty I can’t help but miss the foxes.