He sat in the darkness, listening to the patter of the rain on the window, waiting.  Sometimes it took minutes, other times it took an eon, but the dim flash of the lightning was unfailing.  No matter how long it took, there was always the flash.  No matter how heavy the curtains had been, no matter how totally the window seemed blocked, there was always the flash.  He hated it beyond all words, beyond all expressions, but he only feared what it heralded.

When the roar sounded his eyes clenched shut, he held his ears as tightly as he could, and they spoke to him.  They spoke and he heard them in the creaking of the old house, he heard them though the gentle clatter of darkened lanterns, and he heard them in his bones.  Sometimes they were kind, sometimes they were cold, but they were always empty.  They spoke in words he didn't understand and words he didn't want to.  They spoke for eternity in a second ever fading until the whispers returned to silence and the herald waited to sound their return.  Why wouldn't they just leave him alone?  They'd taken everything hadn't they?  There was nothing left, so why?  

He looked to the window and he knew his questions were as empty as the voices themselves.  All he could do was wait, and so he waited.  When the storm resigned itself to rain alone he climbed into the bed provided to him, but the alien sensation of comfort did little to soothe his frayed nerves.  The bed reminded him of another time, of a name he'd long left behind.  A name that a restless nights dream would show him chiseled onto a lonely gravestone set behind a house whose once vivid details had become blurred and indistinct.

As the morning light crept uninvited into the room Cyrus grudgingly woke to the smell of cooking food.  The previous night had left him nervous, and a check under the bed confirmed that his few possessions were untouched.  It was a habit he'd learned painfully, but he never left things of worth in clothes lent to others.  Moisture clung to the few objects and small puddles had formed under those that had been most exposed, but with some relief he found that his pocket watch was still shining.  In contrast his pistol was mottled with rust, but he was hardly concerned, worse things had happened to the gun.

Removing the watch from the damp pile Cyrus stood up and dressed himself with the clothes left for him.  After a small check to see if any had sustained damage he sighed in relief, they were all he had for the moment.  Without a care to make himself more presentable he moved to the door and peered into the hallway.

Some doors down a small group was conversing and without a word Cyrus found himself out the door and moving in their direction.  He was a light man, and years of experience had taught him to be lighter.  As quietly and quickly as he could manage he moved past the group.  If luck permitted they wouldn't notice him, but he didn't spare the time to see if they did.  In the end he suspected it wouldn't matter, high society more often than not trained itself to be blind to his ilk, whether they noticed or not. 

Making a quick pace he followed the scent of food; no matter how much he disliked the notion of eating with others, he had reached the point it couldn't be avoided.  It would be his first meal in days.  After darting through more hallways he eventually found the source of the scent, and much to his dismay, the sound of conversation coming from within the very same room.  

Without introduction, fanfare, or the slightest intention of discourse; he made his way in.