The rain hasn’t stopped since the machines took control.

"The rain hasn’t stopped since the machines took control."

The words fell from him in a gravelly murmur, barely audible over the ceaseless drumming above. Malachai leaned against the warped tin of the shed, its corrugated surface groaning under his weight, as though the very earth had grown weary of holding anything upright. His stubble caught faint light, sharp against the hollow shadows sculpted by years of attrition. Rainwater streaked his face, but he didn’t flinch. He hadn’t flinched at anything in years.