The surface of the water is still. There are no ripples, nothing disturbing the calm, the peace. There is an eerie silence in the air, a strange sense of fear, of apprehension. Of waiting.
The sky is grey and the water is grey. The weather never changes over this lake- there is the perpetual silence, the calm before the storm, the gritty closeness when all you need is thunder. Even the trees have faded, faded into the background.
Nothing new has happened here for centuries. No-one knew has arrived. But still, one man sits.
Time has worn him away, and he is as grey as the trees, grey as the lake, grey as the sky. He sits in the oppressive quiet. He, too, is waiting.
Nothing changes. Nothing has changed. But here he will wait.
Until the rain comes. Until Arthur returns.