A Roof Over Your Head

Herbert watched as the heavens opened up.

There were no trumpets, no angels, no great, mystical message from God. As far as Herbert knew, there was no god, though plenty of people wanted to debate him on that.

It was a simple rain, the patter pounding on the roof, a trickle running outside the window as the eaves trough did its job.

Herbert leaned back and looked up. The ceiling was painted white above him. He considered painting it something different – maybe like a sky, blue with a few puffy clouds – but dismissed it. It was enough that the roof was there, and protecting him.

Outside the rain fell, and people outside got wet. Herbert was happy to be protected.


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