He was a summer storm, full of flashing lightning and quaking thunder that should have left her trembling. She was a fire on her own, and the brush she passed over was always left to ruin. She knew quite well that the rain would bring an end to her, even if she was a fire born out of lightning strikes. He was brought out to destroy the fire, not ignite it, because he learned quite young that all it brought about was breakage, burning, and end, but he somehow, he knew she was different, that she wanted a fate different than what was given to her. As she heard the first clap of thunder, and felt the ground shake beneath her, she rose in expectation. With a raindrop falling from the dark grey sky and onto her reddish nose, it left behind a trail of scorched charcoal and a sizzle of smoke that blended in with the darkness. She didn’t push back, however, and even as the drops began to sweep across the singed land, she refused to fight. As her embers began to diminish, she crouched to the soaked ground from which she was formed, hoping to return that which she had stolen back to the soil, and as her light dimmed to a single flame, the thunder seemed to call out, “I’m sorry, come back, I promise.” Choking out from the smoke was, “I can’t. I must. It’s better this way. I’m sorry. Let go.” The lighting struck the trees in a vain effort to revive the fires that once struck the entire forest, until it seemed that both the flames and the dark full clouds ran out of fight. Fierce winds scattered any evidence of either disasters and a single bloom born out of the fire and the rain erupted from the deserted ground out of deference to new beginnings.