Vincent was always fond of storms.
Even as a child, hidden in the shelter of Tibet, exposed to the harsh weather almost all the time, he obtained strange fondness for this amazing, unstoppable phenomenon.
The lighting slashed viciously through the sky and the air shook with the force of the thunder. Vincent’s hair stood on ends in primal fear, even as he tried to relax into the couch.
When the storm started, the lights went out, so the book sitting in his lap was relocated to the table. He looked around the room.
This flat – it all seemed a bit empty and too peaceful, compared to the storm brewing in the air. The furniture was luxurious and dark, hardwood floors, shelves filled to the brim with books.
One flash after another illuminated his pensive face, as he waited for the storm to pass. His external stillness was a hoax.
His insides more resembled the weather outside, with deep trembles caused by the thoughts flashing through his mind.
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