The Wait

Gale doesn't hear the barn door rattling.

There's a storm going on outside, the smell of it pungent, the scents of rain and thunder and lightning, harsh wind and the stink of cold in the little cottage. The electricity's long gone, and the only light is the flickering of two candles he's set on top of the wooden table, one already half gone, and the other in an old cracked mug that's grey instead of fair white. 

He doesn't hear anything. 

He has a blanket wrapped around him, Gibson curled against his bare feet, whimpering when thunder sounds and ever so often when Gale gives in to the sobs that wrack his body; but the blanket brings no warmth - it's too old, and too little to ease the cold that comes with fear.

Gale stares at the candles burning on the wooden table. There was nothing to do, but wait. And pray, that Ray would come home.