The sound of rain echoed over the hills, that dark and distant sky drawing ever nearer. Soon the storm would fill the valley as its dreary droning filled our ears. Darkness would fall, and the wind and the chill would invade. There is nothing a man can do against the storm. I will sleep comfortably in my house listening to the pattering of the rain on the roof. Dreaming. What dreams will come? It is the city, I fear, which I will see, which the music of the rain will lend me. I will dream of it, the towers in the sky of steel and glass, the three great spires, and of the horrible emptiness which is more than silence. Damned, forgotten by man, remembered only in false tales and lying whispers. The children whisper of it, and they make the sign. So did I when I was young, though I know not why. It is all lies.
Short: Hints
Tale Told 